


Walk Through Fire At My Side

by Areiton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Anal Fingering, BAMF Gabriel (Supernatural), Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, John is the actual worst, Lucifer is dead, M/M, Pict Dean, Pining, Raphael is not their brother, Roman AU, Roman Castiel, Sam is psychic, Slow Burn, War, era typical slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 13:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 51,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12582708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Castiel was sent to Hadrian’s Wall as punishment, cut off from Rome and his powerful family. He intends to do his time, before he returns to a girl who loves him and a family he misses.He doesn’t expect Sam, a wild mystic who rescues him, or his gruff and overprotective brother Dean, as violent and threatening as he is kind.Dean doesn’t think he can tolerate a Roman, a Legate, not after his history in the arena. But Sam’s visions say that together, they’re safe, and Dean’s trusted those for longer than he can remember.As hostilities between their people increase and both are pressed into fighting a war they don’t believe in, Dean and Castiel are pulled apart by duty and family expectations. Balanced between an empire and a new world, Castiel and two brothers will fight for peace and a fragile chance at love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ahh! It's finally time I'm so excited!!  
> This is my contribution to DCBB2017 and I absolutely adore my art by [iouii ](http://iouii.tumblr.com/).  
> I had the absolutely fantastic beta from [Captain Haterade](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/) and the continual moral support of my buddies, HDP. Thanks so much to all of you.  
> Please note this isn't historically accurate. I played super fast and loose with that, and the history nerd in me cringed a little, but I hope you love it as much as I do. <3

 

 

[ ](https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WkW0RWf92vg/Wfn9UeMUyVI/AAAAAAAADhU/I3NHcNvo_mEhIeqnZg011MjiJ4uPfUMlACLcBGAs/s1600/DCBB17-banniere.png)

 

 

 

** Part 1: The Roman and The Warrior  **

 

**I. Near the Wall**

 

The sound of marching drowned out the steady beat of Morningstar’s hooves against the hard packed road. He’d been riding for the better part of forever, he thinks, grumpily.

Inias trots up next to him, and he gives the centurion a bland look. “You look like you’re marching to your death, Angelus.”

“This place,” he said, slowly, as if to a very small child, “is the ass end of the Empire. Where I have been sent because my idiotic brother is an idiot. Why the hell do you think I’m going to cheer up?”

“You know, I can actually hear you,” Gabriel says. His mare snorts at Morningstar, nudging hard into them. Castiel jerks on the reins, keeping them to the center of the road.

“And it wasn’t that bad.”

“You defiled a temple, Gabriel!” Castiel snaps. “And you stole the goddamn Virgins.”

Gabe looks a little guilty at that. “Borrowed. I was going to give them back,” he protested.

Castiel stares at his brother like the man is insane, because he’s actually beginning to wonder if there’s some truth to that theory and Gabriel has the nerve to smile back.

“At least you aren’t out here alone,” Inias says, cutting through the tension that might just end in fratricide before they reach the fort.

Like that’s a small measure of comfort. They shouldn’t be out here at all. They should be in Rome, still guarding Michael’s interest, while his men rested. They’d spent four years in Gaul.

His men were tired, had families to see to.

None of them should be out here, Inias least of all.

“Get back to your men,” Castiel orders, nudging Morn into a canter.

He heard their sharp response and felt them turning away as he rode ahead.

It was lovely here. Inias was right--the wild country of Britain had a kind of beauty he’d never seen before, green and grays stretching for miles. The wall rose on his right, an imposing image of the Empire’s strength.

He wondered what was behind it.

_Don’t go looking for trouble, Castiel. Go to the Wall, and do your time. I’ll calm the other legates, and the Senate. You’ll be home within a year. Just. Stay out of trouble for once._

His brother’s final order, as he mounted Morn in the courtyard of their insula. Anna and Hannah watched him from the doorway, one sad, one furious.

He sometimes wondered that he was able to evoke so much emotion in a slave girl. And why he couldn’t summon the same response for her.

It didn’t matter. Hannah was a world away, nestled in the heart of the Empire, with his sister and Michael, and his very politically inclined family.

It would be easier, for them all, with Castiel gone.

Maybe it was time to accept that it was easier for himself, to be gone. Here, they expect nothing but what he could give them. A youngest son bringing glory to the Empire, to Rome.

Something moves in the corner of his eye, and he tugs on the reins. Morn snorts under him, fighting the bit and Castiel takes a moment to calm the gray stallion.

When he looks back, the wall is empty and the countryside quiet, windblown, savagely lovely.

But for a moment, he could have sworn he saw something--someone--watching him.

~.~

“What in the name of the gods do you think you’re doing!” Dean snarls, almost throwing Sam  into the woods. He glances behind them, at the wide stretch of space between the wall and the treeline. They are in that empty space, the place between the towers that isn’t constantly under watch, but it is stupid and dangerous, running the ditch like that, climbing the gods-damned thing.

“I needed to see, Dean,” Sam says, and he sounds so weary that it checks Dean’s anger, stills him for a moment. He pauses, and studies his brother.

Sam looks tired, drawn thin, the kind of worn out that Dean recognizes from years of watching his brother carry a burden he couldn’t take.

“You had a vision,” he says. He doesn’t phrase it like a question, because when Sam looks like that, it isn’t.

The kid nods, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Fire and carrion birds and white petals on a battlefield. And blue skies, pouring blood. But when you walked where the petals fell, the fire was pushed back and the blood did not flow.”

He looks up, his face pale and worried, big eyes pleading for something Dean can’t give him. “Why was it landing on you, Dean?” Dean doesn't have an answer to this. He’s never had an answer when it comes to his visions.

“What are you even doing out here, Sam?” Dean asks, dragging his brother upright and rubbing at the dirt on his arms.

“I woke up and needed to see what was coming. What was on the other side of the Wall. I was careful.”

“And what did you see?”

Sam’s eyes go glazed and distant, that far away look that Dean hates.

“Soldiers. Rome has sent more soldiers, led by a man on a horse the color of mourning.” He refocuses on Dean, and something brightens his gaze. “You will like him.”

Dean barks out something that could be called a laugh. “Pretty sure your record is shot, Sam. I hate the soldiers.” He grabs his brother’s arm and jerks until the overgrown child climbs to his feet.

Sam pats his shoulder and smiles that irritating mystic smile he saves for the girls in the village who still buy his act. “Not yet. You will like this one.”

 

**II. The Wall**

 

The fort is one of the largest on the Wall, and Castiel eyes it with trepidation.

The cohorts they’re relieving have manned the wall for almost five years. Castiel knows he won’t be here that long--he might be out of favor within the Empire, but Michael relies on his brothers’ support too much to remove them indefinitely. But for a time. For a year or more.

This windswept, wild place, with it’s rough-hewn rocks and dark corridors, and the muddy courtyard where his men would spar. Where he would spar.

Claudius Thelonius commands the fort and the wall for ten miles in either direction, a grizzled soldier that has spent more time serving the Empire than Cas been alive. He greets Castiel and his centurions with something like disgust on his face. “Rome needs to send real men to maintain its borders,” he grumbles.

Inias bristles and Castiel gives him a warning look, shaking his head as Gabriel grins, bright and shiny and feral. Balthazar just laughs, low and rich.

Let Claudius think what he wishes. They are here on orders, and he is very aware of his men’s skill, of his own experience, even if this man who has defended the wall for  years has not heard his name before.

“I agree, Centurion,” Castiel says, smoothly. “Perhaps, before you and your men take your leave of us, you can show me the places that need the most protection?”

“Suspect you’ll be needin’ it,” Claudius says, sourly.

Cas bites back a groan as he dismounts, and a slave boy runs up to take his horse. Morn snaps at him, shying sideways and jostling into Cas, who gives a little ground before soothing the irritable stallion.

“I’ll see to him,” Cas says, with a slight smile. “He is temperamental.”

Gabriel glances at him. “Get the men settled?”

“Please. I’m sure the Centurion has someone who can help you?”

He turns a questioning stare on Claudius, his tone even and polite, but implacable, and the older man finally breaks into something that can’t ever be called a smile, but could, perhaps, be called a smirk. “Aye, I have a man for that.”

~.~

 

Handing over command is never easy. And with sixteen hundred troops arriving to displace nearly two thousand--the next few days are nothing short of insane. He rides out with Claudius, accompanied by Gabriel, while Balthazar and Inias sort through the cohorts. His brother is tense and angry at his side as they gallop through the countryside, listening to Claudius reeling off the history of skirmishes. Where the most men have died and where they rarely patrol. He learns what each tower requires and how often then go beyond the Wall to maintain the ditch, and how often to expect shipments of supplies from Rome (not often).

And he hears something he doesn’t expect in the older legate: love. Affection. A warm pride for this savage land that he doesn’t understand.

Castiel can see the beauty of the wild land. But it is not Rome, not the bright green hills that surrounded her, and he didn’t understand the love he heard in the other man.

And, too, there was Gabriel. Balthazar and Inias were easing into the new fort, following orders.

But Gabriel.

All of his goodwill and smiles vanishes when they reach the fort, when Claudius sneers at them, replaced with an edgy fury that worries Castiel.

Gabe was dangerous when he smiled. When he grew quiet and broody--he was deadly.

He lets it go for two days, until he emerges from the fort to find his gold-touched brother coated in mud, smiling in feral delight, spinning his sword. The morning light catches and dances on the blade. Castiel pauses next to Balthazar. The centurion grins at him. “Making sure they know who he is, isn't he?”

“How many?” Castiel asks, watching the spectacle.

There’s a sudden flurry of motion, the ringing clang of swords clashing and a meaty thud as Gabe attacks, and the soldier falls.

“That makes five,” Balthazar says, his voice full of satisfaction.

Five legionnaires that Gabe has laid out, and he’s dirty but not bleeding.

Castiel whistles sharply and Gabe laughs, spinning to grin up at his brother. It’s the lightest Castiel has seen him since they arrived at the fort, and it eases some of the tension in his gut.

He jerks his head sharply and Gabe pouts at him, from a courtyard full of soldiers he would fight, covered in mud and their blood and Castiel was right. The man is actually insane.

“You should let him play, Cassie,” Balthazar murmurs and he cuts his eyes to the centurion. “He needs to work out his anger.”

Castiel ignores Balthazar and nods at his brother, tipping his head toward the stables.

Morningstar is in a foul mood and snaps at him twice before Castiel gets the devil saddled and meets Gabriel, mounted on Pan, and then he lunges at the smaller horse who dances sideways, away from Morn.

They ride in silence for two miles, until the scent of the fort fades and the tension eases in Gabe’s shoulders, and he can breathe deep and clean.

“Why?” he asks, simply, pulling Morn into a trot that he fights.

“Why not?”Pan slows to match his gait, and Gabe huffs.

Castiel gives his brother a long stare and Gabe squirms under it.

Finally. “Because they expect nothing of us. And they should expect everything. We have given them _everything_.”

He snarls the last and Castiel knows where his thoughts are.

“Gabriel,” he says, softly. Pulling Morn to a slow stop to look at his brother.

Gabriel refuses to meet his gaze. Watches the waving grass, the wildness of it.

“We gave them everything, Cas, and they--they think we’re untried boys,” he says, voice broken.

“They don’t matter,” Cas murmurs, gently. “They’re leaving and our men know the truth.”

Gabe finally turns back to Castiel. “Our men do. But who will tell the truth of our brother to Rome?”

“He won’t be forgotten.” Castiel says, insistent. Gabriel’s gaze wanders, away from him and over the wild land.

“Brother, we’re alive and we’re forgotten. Why should our dead be any different?”

 

**III. The Wall**

 

It’s itchy, impatient annoyance that does it, dragging under his skin.

They have been at the Wall for a month. Everyone has settled to their duties, to endless rotations of patrol, to riding the wall and clearing the ditch, to the intense boredom of the Wall that no one had bothered to mention when he was ordered here.

He had spent years in Gaul, years fighting the fiercest battles the Empire waged, and now--he watches the trees and the grass grow.

And he likes the trees.

Gods, he even likes the damn _grass_. He’s pretty sure Inias was going to toss him over the wall, if he remarks again on how unexpectedly beautiful the country is.

But.

He is bored.

Gabriel was not the only Angelus brother to grow dangerous when he was bored.

 

~.~

 

The rules are simple.

Rome stays on their side of the wall. They cross, in small patrols bristling with arms and covered by the watch towers, to clear the shallow ravine when it grows a little too wild.

And the Picts stay on the other side, hidden in their forest.

Neither are foolish enough to think that they aren’t being watched, that the tribes on the wild side of the Wall don’t observe them and the boundary just as closely as Rome does, but they are content, it seems, to be left alone.

The Empire has no desire to push their borders farther north--let the wild tribes have the wildland.

Cas knows the rules. Knows he is being stupid and reckless and he does it anyway.

Morningstar snaps at him as he saddles the big gray and mounts him in the dark courtyard. And when he slips through the gate, into the wild beyond the wall--

No one but the moon watches.

~.~

The eyes follow him, but no one appears from the trees as he and Morn gallop along the wall. The horse is ecstatic, running full out in the dark. Cas grins into the horse’s neck, bent low over him, and lets the wind rush over him.

When they run like this, when there is nothing to check Morn’s speed and grace and power, it feels almost like he is flying.

He lets the stallion run until he’s heaving, sweat gathering on his neck and bellowing sides, and pulls him in reluctantly. Even tired, Morn fights him, and Castiel hides his smile as he forces the horse into a canter and then a slow trot.

For the first time since Claudius and his men left, he feels like he can breathe. There is no one demanding anything from him in this moment.

There is only the night wind and Morning, tired and patient now.

He tilts his head back and inhales, and wonders if Claudius wasn’t right, to love this place. As far from home as it is, with the barbarians at their gates--there is something ethereal and enchanting in the wildness of it. In the fog that creeps from the trees and fills the ditch, slinking slow over the wall.

In the grasses that wave like an ocean.

In the sky that stretches into forever, so big and close he feels like he could touch it, something the lights of Rome and the buildings obscured.

His eyes closed, he lets Morning pick their path, turning them back to the fort where his brother sleeps and Inias is probably wondering where the hell he has gone.

A smile turns up his lips.

That’s when the arrow punches through the air, through the misty fog, and slams into his side.

 

 

**IV. Beyond the Wall**

 

He has a moment, as the arrow quivers in his side and Morning bucks under him, to realize that he is completely and utterly fucked. Then the pain follows, kicks through him like Morning, and he swallows the scream that wants to rise, grits his teeth on it and ducks low over Morn's neck.

The horse is tired, and they're miles from his fort. But he digs his heels in and mutters, "C'mon, you devil."

He snorts once and jumps forward.

Pain flares along his side and Castiel lets the tiniest groan out as he clings to the horse. He can feel blood running down his side, feel the arrow digging deeper with each pounding stride Morning takes, the arrow jostling.

What did Claudius say about the tribes? Do they poison their arrows?

Poison was usually a woman's tool, meant for stealth and close contact, a dirty trick that had stolen more of his men in Gual than he liked to think about, but arrows were dirty, too.

He grunts as Morning jumps a low dip in the ground and feels his grip slipping on his reins. The moon feels very large, looming over him as he fights to look past Morning's mane.

He can hear noise behind him--animal calls and eerie shouts that make his blood run cold. He is going to die out here because he was fucking bored and Gabriel will lose his actual shit if that happens.

Morn twists as something--a spear. They are throwing _spears_ \--comes out of the dark, and Castiel curses as he almost falls.

Morning comes to a stop, panting, his legs straight, and ears pricked. Castiel can hear movement behind him.

He stares at the wall, at the distant gleam of the nearest watchtower.

"We won't make it," he mutters, and yanks on the reins.

Morn turns instantly and plunges into the ravine, scrambling up the side as Cas fights to cling to his back. The voices behind him get louder,  and then the trees are around him and Morning is ducking through them, slowing now.

Cas can hear the whispers of the voices in the forest, and every moment, he feels like something will come out of them, finish him off.

Gabriel will kill him.

No. Gabe will burn the country to the ground, will slaughter his way through the tribesmen and drag the Empire into a war they cannot win, to avenge a brother too stupid to stay on his side of the damn wall.

Which simply will not do.

He brings Morning to a halt, and slides off the stallion. He fumbles for the ring on his finger, and ties it into Morn's mane with shaking hands.

The stallion balks when he shoves at him, snaps once and Cas slaps him, hard, on the rump. He watches long enough to lose sight of the big grey stallion, watching him running for the Wall, and hopes like hell Gabe gets the message.

Then he sets about the very important task of staying alive.

~.~

The trees are silent, almost eerily so, as Sam moves through the forest.

They are silent, like something is wrong.

He pauses where he's digging up wolfsbane and frowns at the leaves.

There is a heavy trace of violence, something that makes him shudder.

And hoofprints.

He stares at them and murmurs, "What in the name of the gods?"

Horses don't come to this part of the forest. No one does.

Well--one horse does, one idiot who refuses to listen to reason, but Dean has been on a hunting trip with their uncle for the past month, and won't be back for another week.

There  is no reason for there to be fresh hoofprints in his corner of the forest.

He frowns at them, almost personally offended by the intrusion and tucks his handful of wolfsbane away as he creeps along, following the tracks.

If there's something in his forest, he sure as hell means to find it.

~.~

He's hot and shivering, and he thinks--he isn't completely sure on this last bit because even for him, it feels ludicrous--that the ground is trying to eat him. The vines are shifty and keep clinging to him, tugging at his clothes and catching on the edge of the arrow. He knew better than to remove it, but he’s pretty sure whoever shot the damn thing dipped it in poison first, because really. The ground is trying to eat him.

"Oh, gods," something says.

And isn't that just wonderful.

The ground is trying to eat him, and the fucking trees are talking.

“Go away, tree,” he mumbles.

The tree says something, and Castiel could swear it sounds exasperated with him.

And then it does something extraordinary--the tree folds in on itself, crouching at his side and growing a face.

Castiel makes out big eyes that are wide with concern, lush pink lips tight with worry, and intricate tattoos covering half his face--oh. His tree is a man.

A barbarian man.

Hot fingers press against his side and pain flares, blinding him, and he gives into the ground that is still trying to eat him.

~.~

The soldier--and there is no doubt that the man who has just passed out at his feet is a soldier, from beyond the wall and dangerous--looks....helpless.

His face is pale, blood stains the rough weave tunic he is wearing, and when he'd stared up at Sam, he had looked bemused, almost like he was going to laugh.

He never did. He passed out instead and Sam understands, suddenly, the hoofprints in his side of the forest and why the hell this man is still alive.

And that gives him pause.

He is  a mystic, a man who sees visions and dreams death, and the tribes treat him with all the respect and caution that warrants. They bring food and animal skins, traps and weapons, to the edge of the forest they refuse to enter, and he gathers it, and lives there.

Alone.

No one from the tribes will cross that border, will wander into a land that belongs to someone so clearly touched by the gods.

It has saved this nameless Roman's life.

And now--he is dying at Sam's feet and Sam can save him. Draw out the poison and the arrow and preserve his life, send him back to the Empire weaker but whole.

Or he can let the man die.

He stands there, watching the shallow breathing, the bright color in his cheeks, the hair that clung to his head, sweaty and dirty.

_There is blood and smoke and petals, white and blue, falling on a field of death. And where they fell, Dean walks, and no death touches him._

Sam gasps and clutches at the ground, his gut churning as he tries to see this soldier, and not the fragmented vision. “You’re him,” he breathes. “You’re the falling flowers.”

Dean and death walk hand in hand in so many of his visions. If this man could stop that--Sam scoops him up and the man mutters something in quiet Latin, as he turns toward home, carrying the wounded soldier with him.

 

**V. Beyond the Wall**

 

Dean nudges his black mare deeper into the forest. She doesn’t need guidance--Baby kows where this path leads, and is picking across it with a delicate determination and haste that makes his lips twitch.

He isn’t the only one tired and ready to be home, then.

He lets her have the reins, trusting her to pick the safest path to the clearing.

He remembers the first time he came to this part of the forest, the way the close growing trees had made him shudder. It was too quiet here--even the animals were still and silent in a reverential waiting as the mystic passed.

He had gone, because Sam was the seer, the wise one who saw things that could protect and hurt the clans. He was to be trained as a mystic. And Dean couldn’t leave him alone to that.

There were protests. Of course there were. John expected Dean close, hunting and watching the Romans at the wall.

But he had protected his brother since the kid was a child and their mother was killed in a raid.

He sure as hell wasn’t planning on leaving him with some wild-haired woman in the woods with too many poisons and a fondness for smoking.

So he stayed, and if it bothered Missouri, she didn’t say except to complain when he wasn’t quick enough to clean.

And the woods became home, as much as their tribe had been, as much as the wild parts of the forest where Sam and Dean and Baby ventured alone, chasing Sam’s dreams and Dean’s curiosities.

Now the grove is welcome and familiar, and Baby’s gait picks up, her ears pricking as she trots into the little clearing.

The clearing is quiet and still. Smoke rises from the small hut and he can smell something cooking, but it’s quiet enough that he is convinced his brother has gone into the forest.

Not surprising. Sam wanders often, and he didn’t expect Dean’s return for another three days. He dismounts and pats Baby’s rump softly. She wickers at him, an affectionate noise, before lowering her head to nibble at the grass.

He lifts his pack, heavy with cured meats and hides for Sam, and turns to the hut.

As he pushes in, his eyes slowly adjust to the home he knows better than he does his own. It smells, faintly, always, of herbs and potions, the sweet decaying scent of the tinctures Sam concocts for the tribes, and the peaty smell of smoke from his fire.

The scent of sweat and--

He pauses, and let his eyes sweep the room again, looking for the blood.

The moment he sees it, the blood, the _man,_ Dean’s whole world _shifts_ and there’s a moment of blinding terror for Sam.

He’s tall, taking up almost the entire length of Sam’s sleeping mat, and bronze from the sun.

Dark hair is messy around his face. His lips are a pale, chapped pink that makes Dean lick his own.

Once, when Dean was hunting alone, he saw a wolf. It was a massive black thing with bright blue eyes that regarded him thoughtfully over a dying fire.

This man reminds him of that wolf. He is beautiful.

And dangerous.

He pulls his knife without ever deciding to.

As he creeps closer, lowering the bags to the ground soundlessly, Dean runs through all the reasons why a Roman--a gorgeous Roman with a strong jawline and sharp nose--is in his brother’s damn bed.

Blue eyes open when Dean presses the blade to his neck, and for a second, his breath catches.

He’s only seen blue that wild and deep when he saw the sea, years ago when Bobby took him to trade with the clans across the water.

He was fascinated with it then, and he’s fascinated now, his grip loosening just a little on the knife.

The man smiles up at him. “Hello, Dean.” he says, his voice raspy and hoarse and everything comes rushing back, where he is and who this is, and he snarls.

Blue eyes go wide as he moves, without thinking, and stabs the Roman.

He makes a noise, all punched out and pained, and it turns Dean’s stomach.

“Dean!” Sam shouts from behind him, and Dean grits his teeth, bearing down as his brother crosses the room in two strides and yanks him off the Roman. He almost tosses Dean aside, crouching over the solider and pulling the knife out.

Tosses that after Dean and mutters to himself as he sets about bandaging and treating the wound.  “It’s shallow,” he mumbles. “You’ll be fine. See, it already feels better.”

“Lies,” the soldier grits out and something like a smile tugs at his lips.

What. In the name of the gods. _Happened_?

“Dean. The fire,” Sam snaps and that absent-minded warmth he gave the soldier isn’t in his tone.

Dean grumbles but goes, stoking the fire until it catches and flares, coming to life under his hands.

Sam works on the soldier for a while. Long enough that Dean loses interest and wanders out to check on Baby. The sun is setting by the time Sam sits back. His hands are bloody and there are shadows under his eyes, a familiar tension in his shoulders that Dean hates.

“You stabbed a man under my protection,” he says, without looking up.

Dean grunts an answer and scoops out some stew that he thrusts at Sam.

Kid needs it. He looks like a stiff wind could bowl him over, like he’s propped up by anger and determination.

“I stabbed a Roman in my brother’s house when I couldn’t find said brother.”

Something flickers in Sam’s eyes, self-recrimination, before it’s gone and his scowl deepens.

“You can’t just stab people because you don’t like them, Dean.”

Dean flashes a grin, savage and unrepentant. "I'd say I can."

"And when the Romans decide they want their legate back, and he's dead in my wood? What then? You gonna stab every legionnaire that comes over the wall?"

Dean's expression goes angry and mutinous. "If I have to."

Sam snorts, and pushes to his feet, thrusting his bowl into Dean's hands. "Here. You think you can keep him from dying for a while? I need to finish with some of the plants I picked today."

Dean opens his mouth and Sam's expression goes tight and angry.

So he nods and clamps his lips shut. "Yeah, sure. I'll just. Watch him."

Sam nods, wearily, and pushes outside. "Just don't stab him again. He's been stabbed and shot enough for now."

"Does that mean I might get to stab him later?" Dean shouts after Sam, earning himself a muttered curse, but he's laughing and it strings a grin across Dean's face. He ignores the Roman, instead busies himself putting away the food and hanging the supplies he brought back to Sam.

It's familiar and comfortable, the kind of familiarity and comfort that he doesn't find when he's with John.

That is always tension and anger, a kind of fierce stalemate that makes Dean itch to escape.

And that feeds the tension, until it's an unending cycle of tension and leaving and fury.

But this--even with the Roman asleep in the corner--is quiet. Peaceful. There is no commentary about him cooking and tidying after Sam, the tuneless humming he makes, or the fact that he is happy like this.

He glances over at the Roman, and is only a little startled to see big blue regarding him with wary caution. He huffs and scrubs his hands clean from the dried herbs he's hanging, before approaching him slowly. "You understand me?" he asks, and the soldier nods, slowly.

"How?" Dean demands, his voice sharp.

The soldier shrugs and makes a pained noise as it moves his shoulder, tugging at the place where Dean stabbed him.

"Hey, hey. easy. Sammy'll gut me if you rip that open again," Dean cautions, moving toward the bed and crouching down. His hands are on the Roman before he thinks about it, holding him still, but the grip is gentle. Soothing.

The kind of touch he reserves for Sam, Bobby, Baby when she's skittish.

Not the kind that this man deserves. Something twists in his gut and he shifts away. Stands and paces a little, muttering to himself.

"Knew a Pict, once." the soldier says, slowly. "When I was in Gaul. He taught me."

A slave. No Pict would travel that far, from clan and territory, if not by force. Dean grits his teeth and nods once.

"Why are you here?"

The soldier's eyes close and he sighs, this put upon noise, like even this, being saved and cared for, is inconvenient and Dean's hands ball into fists. Until--

"I did something stupid," he admits.

 

 

**VI. The Wall**

 

Balthazar learned, early in life, that to be friends with Castiel meant that you were exposed--for good or ill--to the powerful and sometimes unbalanced brothers who plagued him.

Since he had never had much option in being friends with Castiel, nor possessed of siblings of his own, he had spent much of his life observing the interactions of the Angelus familia, with some interest and a healthy dose of incredulity.

There was the eldest brother, Michael, a rising power in the Senate, with the ear of the Emperor himself.

And there was Lucius, who turned his incredible mind, his terrifying ambition and cunning intellect toward the legions. It was whispered, very quietly, that the elder Angelus brothers chose different avenues to power so they did not destroy each other.

Balthazar had watched them grow up, watched them fight in the courtyard while Castiel stared at them over his scrolls and Anna screamed encouragement, and he knew there was no love lost between Lucius and Michael.

That Michael chose political power and Lucius the military only meant they would destroy the Empire, if they ever pitted their strength against each other.

Sometimes, Balthazar thinks Lucius being captured and killed in Gaul was the best thing that happened to the Empire. To all of them. He had learned to think that very quietly.

Something else he learned, watching them, is no matter how they fought each other, when they were threatened by an outside force, the Angelus family was feral in their defense of each other.

It's why he was so baffled that Michael had not blocked the order to have Gabriel sent to the Wall.

And why he was not surprised at all that Castiel immediately volunteered to go with him. Michael might not have expected that, but Balthazar did. But then, he had watched them for the better part of his life.

But in this moment, his focus was not on the powerful and angry older Angelus brothers or why any of them did what they did.

It is on the golden middle son, the one often forgotten or dismissed.

He watches Gabriel pace their quarters, sleek and feline, snarling in anger, and wonders how anyone could ever think to dismiss him?

"He's fine, Gabe," Balthazar says, again.

"You don't know that," Gabe snaps. "We haven't had any word since that damn horse ran up. He could be dead, for all you know."

Gabe's hand clenches on the ring, the one he pulled from Morningstar's mane, the one identical to his own--the Angelus crest.

"How many times has Cas been behind the lines of battle? Has he spied on them to give us an advantage? And every time, he is fine. He comes home in one piece."

Gabriel swings around, glaring at him.

He's furious, shaking with it, all the rage and fear begging for an outlet and Balthazar sighs. Unfolds himself from the bed and crosses the room to push Gabriel into the wall.

For a moment, the older man fights him, and he braces himself for that, for a dirty scuffle that ends--always--with him on his stomach, gasping into the sheets while Gabe bit pleasure into his skin.

The Angelus brothers fought dirty and fucked dirtier--or this one did.

But he doesn't. As Balthazar leans into him and the sun drops over the horizon, ushering in the long night, the fight slides out of him and Gabe allows himself to be led back to bed.

Balthazar has spent most of his life studying the Angelus brothers. It's almost a requirement, to be friends with Castiel. And he knows, even as he sinks to his knees and takes Gabe's heavy cock in his mouth--that this won't last.

Gabriel is fury and danger wrapped up in impatience, and if Castiel is not home--unharmed--soon, the fragile peace bought by the Wall will shatter.

~.~

When he creeps out of bed, he’s sore and tired and very satisfied. Gabe is sprawled across the bed, his hair a golden halo around him. Like this, his edges are worn away and Balthazar can see the boy who laughed and teased smiles from Castiel as a child, the grinning bastard who would steal the Vestal Virgins and claim it was all a joke.

Like this, his demons and guilt and regret fell away.

Balthazar shakes his head and tugs a clean-ish tunic on over his head, padding out of the room.

Inias is leaning on the wall when he emerges, head tipped back to stare up at the sky. Balthazar nudges him and Inias moves just a little, making room for him. Conceding ground, just enough.

It’s the careful and familiar dance they’ve done for years, fighting for space in the Angelus family.

“Is he calm?”

“For now,” Balthazar says. “It won’t last, if Cassie doesn’t come back soon.”

Inias’ face scrunches in thought. “You don’t think he will.”

“He sent Morningstar home, alone.”

Inias heaves a sigh. “Yes. That is what I keep coming back to as well.”

They stand in silence and then Inias breathes a curse and straightens. “Well. I’ll go get him.”

Balthazar wants to argue. Wants to tell his friend that he’s being an idiot.

He is. Losing a legate to the tribes is bad enough. Sending a centurion after him is idiotic.

Especially since the Angelus family would react furiously if they lost their youngest son and the son they fostered.

But he presses his lips together and nods. “I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

Inias snorts his response to that, and turns to pick up a light sack. Balthazar eyes it warily. Inias is good at slipping through places undetected, infiltrating. He was stealth and surprise, but this—

He bit his tongue, choking down the instinctive argument and Inias smirks at him. Answers it anyway. “I’ll do better traveling light, brother. Keep Angelus from starting a damn war while I’m gone, would you?”

Balthazar nods mutely, and Inias slips away, stealing into the darkness until he was gone.

In truth--this is not different. It’s what they have done for years. Balthazar soothes Gabriel’s volatile temper. Inias stays close to Castiel. Between the four of them, they led an army that was as vicious and effective as any in the Empire.

But then, they’ve never lost Cassie in enemy territory, when Gabriel was so close to the killing edge.

He sighs and mutters a quick prayer that they all survive this, and then returns to the warm bed of his lover.

 

 

**VII. Beyond the Wall**

 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Sam asks as he trips over Dean’s outstretched feet.

“Don’t you still have a fucking Roman in your bed?” Dean says, lazily.

Sam snarls and Dean gives him that shit-eating grin that triggered so many fights growing up.

“If you two could remember that I am, in fact, here and not amused by your antics,” a dry, deep voice said, “I would be eternally grateful.”

Sam swallows his laughter at the sour expression on Dean’s face, and turns back to the salve he’s making. “I have to take these to Missouri by sunset,” he says, looking over at the Roman before directing his attention at Dean. “Do you think you can share the fire for one night without murdering, stabbing or otherwise maiming my guest?”

“You do know,” Dean says, conversational, “you are the only fucking mystic north of the Wall that would put a legionnaire back together instead of carving out their guts.”

Sam nods. “I know.”

His eyes, flecks of gold and green and earth, are steady and demanding, and Dean sighs.

“Yes, Sam, I’ll watch your damn pet soldier, and I won’t try to kill him.”

“I appreciate that,” Castiel interjects, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Do you think we could gag him though?” he pleads and Castiel--bastard--laughs when Sam gives him a bitchy glare.

~.~

For the first few hours after Sam leaves, Dean abandons the house altogether. Castiel lays on the bed, bored as hell, listening as he sings loudly and off-key, while he shouts and laughs at someone called Baby, while he whistles and works. Eventually, he returns, stacking wood silently in one corner and then turning his attention to chopping vegetables.

“You cook very well,” Castiel finally offers, and Dean’s back goes stiff.

“Doesn’t take much to work a knife,” he says, evenly, “and you know damn well I can do that.”

Castiel doesn’t flinch, but only because he’s spent the past four days observing Dean and Sam.

If he has learned anything about the Picts who have captured him--or rescued him. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track of what is happening--it is that the brothers are devoted to each other.

Dean promised that he would watch over Castiel while Sam was away. Cas is pretty sure that no matter how Dean feels about him, he’s about as safe as he’ll ever be on this side of the Wall.

And he’s been lying here for days, watching. If Dean won’t hurt him, than he’s going to use the time to press for information the warrior would typically dodge.

“Warriors don’t often cook, though,” Castiel says, quietly.

“They do if they want to eat and feed their brother after their mother died.” Dean snaps. The words land like a challenge, something Dean is daring him to answer. Castiel doesn't understand the warrior who is by turns amusing and fierce and always, always kind to the brother who pushes himself too hard.

But he wants to.

"My mother died, giving birth to my sister," Castiel says, softly. "I was four."

Dean pauses where he's stirring the stew and his head tilts in Castiel's direction.

He's listening, even if he won't respond.

"I was the youngest. My brothers were busy training and learning—Michael was already fostered with the Aurelius family so much of the time, it was just me and Anna, and her wet nurse. She cried all the time," he adds, leaning his head back. Even now, a world and lifetime away, he can picture her, pretty little face screwed up in fury, screaming her rage at the world and Castiel.

"I learned how to care for her because sometimes her nurse, Hadassah, wasn't there, and she would scream for attention. My father hated it. So did Lucius. But we do what we need to keep our siblings alive and happy, don't we?"

Dean turns, pitches a hip into the rattly table to stare at him. "Your sister. She is in Rome?"

Castiel nods.

For now, she is still in the Angelus insula, until she is wed. There is a senator she is promised to. It will happen before he returns. She was furious when she found out--Castiel would miss her wedding. When he left, she hadn't spoken to Michael or Gabriel in over a month.

"She'd make a good legionnaire, though," Castiel grins, at the mental image of Anna in armor and charging on the back of Morningstar, her bright red hair streaming like a banner.

Dean grins, reaches up to rub it away. "Feisty?"

Castiel nods. "She's a match for any of my soldiers and most of the savages I've fought. I pity her husband."

"Thought Roman women were docile and tended your homes."

Castiel laughs, hisses in a breath as his shoulder jostles. "They are. But Anna wasn't raised by a Roman woman--she was raised by four brothers with no sense and too much ambition. She had to be stronger than all of us if she didn't want to be drowned. And she never was. The girl is brilliant, the brightest star of our family."

Dean is frowning. "You love her."

"She is my sister."

The frown deepens and he shakes his head. "Romans don't care about family, Castiel. They care about the empire and _duty_."

He spits it like a dirty word and Castiel's gaze shifts, curious. "Is that why you care for Sam?"

Dean stiffens, fury flashing across his face, and Castiel considers, briefly, that this man stabbed  him not so very long ago, is dangerous and the only thing holding him back now is a promise give to the very man Castiel is baiting him with.

"Don't talk about him," Dean snarls. "You have no idea what pressure he faces. What kind of shit I take, just for taking care of him."

"Your clan doesn't like it, do they. That you are so close to a mystic."

It isn't a question and Dean doesn't answer. Instead he turns back to the stew and Castiel watches him finish their evening meal and wonders what the hell put that heavy weight on Dean's shoulders.

Who did?

"Is your father still alive?" Castiel asks, after a time and Dean flinches. He glances, involuntarily, toward the door and then blows out a breath and continues stirring vegetables into the stew.

Then he stands and walks out, without bothering to tell Cas where he's going or why.

Castiel heaves a sigh and resigns himself to waiting.

~.~

"Wake up."

Dean's leaning over him, and there's a bowl of soup that looks amazing, even if Dean looks to have picked out the meat from his bowl.

He gives the other man an accusing glare and Dean shrugs. "Glare all you want, Blue. My brother is scarier than you are."

Castiel swallows the remark that wants to rise, and basks in that tiny thing. He wonders if Dean even realizes what he called Cas.

His shoulder aches and Dean crouches next to the bed, the stew steaming next to them as he carefully unwraps the wound.

"It looks like it's healing well," Dean mutters and he dabs some of the salve that Sam left over the healing cut before wrapping back up and reaching for the stew.

"Think you can feed yourself?" Dean asks, and Castiel licks his lips. Tries to lift his arm and groans. It's always tight and hurting right after he sleeps.

Dean hisses a curse through his teeth, but shrugs.

Eating from Dean's hand is messy. In part because it's stew, a thick chunky thing. Dean picks out pieces of vegetables and holds it up, his gaze resolutely on the bowl as Cas eats from his fingers. Once,  not thinking, he licks the thick broth from Dean's fingers and the other man jumps, almost spilling the stew as he curses.

"Sorry," Castiel breathes, and Dean stares at him, wide-eyed and panicked. He’s careful after that, and Dean is, his long blunt fingers offering up the vegetables and bits of bread with a delicacy that never gives Cas the chance to touch him.

He isn’t sure why that is so damn disappointing, but he very firmly does not think about it as he finishes his meal. When he finally turns away, Dean eyes him briefly, and then shrugs and licks his fingers clean before he stands and leaves the hut in silence.

Castiel lays in the growing darkness, the shadows being thrown by the fire and wonders why the hell a Pict in the middle of the woods is so damn fascinating. Watching Dean lick his fingers clean had caused his cock to twitch and his blood to pound  and he couldn’t.

He could not entertain these thoughts for a man who very much wanted to kill him.

~.~

The woods are still and silent as Dean stalks into them. Baby twitches her ears at him, moving to follow and he pauses to soothe her before he slides into the trees.

He can still feel the soft press of Castiel’s lips on his fingers and the big blue eyes that watched with a kind of calm patient trust that set his teeth on edge.

Romans didn’t trust him. And he sure as hell didn’t spend the day cooking for them, feeding them.

He stalks into the forest, letting the branches and bushes caress his skin, catching a little as he pads deeper, until he is far enough in that he can’t be seen, but he can watch the house.

He is going to kill Sam for adopting a damn stray.

Of course--Sam had always liked the soldiers. He didn’t blame them for Mari’s death, or for the way John had lost his mind, lost control of the clan. And he had been too deep in training with Missouri to even notice those years when--

Dean shakes his head. “No,” he snaps. He doesn’t think about that time. Not here, within sight of his brother’s home, where he is safe. Where Sam is safe and he would kill any who dared change that.

Except.

Castiel, with his big blue eyes and his pink mouth and his body that filled up Sam’s bed in ways that were altogether too damn distracting--Castiel could hurt Sam. And Dean wasn’t doing a damn thing to prevent it.

The truth was, he didn't know how to protect Sam anymore.

When they were children, and Sam was chasing after him, clinging to Baby in front of him, coughing in his sleep and wrapped around  Dean to stay warm--those days were easy. Even when Sam was older, and able to fight--Dean could guide him. Teach him how to hunt and how to fight. How to protect himself.

He stood between Sam and John when their father raged, and between Sam and hunger, Sam and raiding tribes, Sam and every fucking danger that ever eased toward his brother.

But he could not stand between Sam and his visions.

He could not protect im from that and it was killing him. He knew that Sam thought this Roman bastard was important, knew that he couldn't do anything to stop him from being here. But it infuriated him.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks, his voice weary. Dean almost jumps. Kid moves through the woods as quietly as he does, and  leaves no trace of his passing.

He'd be proud of Sam if he weren't so freaking annoyed by it.

"Getting away from your damn pet."

"Dean," Sam says, too tired to argue.

"You gotta get rid of him, Sam. He's going to bring the fucking legions down on us, and after this long, we really don't need them to come across the wall because a legate got bored and went for a nighttime stroll."

Sam gives him a curious stare. "Is that what he told you happened?"

"Did he tell you something different?" Dean asks, irritable.

Sam shakes his head. "He didn't tell me anything."

A strange warmth spreads in his gut and Dean shoves it down, ruthlessly. He is not allowed to be moved by this. He is not allowed to be happy some fucking legionnaire trusts him.

And why the hell would a legionnaire trust him? He stabbed the poor bastard.

"Dean," Sam says, suddenly, his voice urgent. "You have to protect him.

"What?"

"Something is--" Sam shudders and Dean jerks upright, catching the kid as his legs go out from under him, and they hit the forest ground hard.

Fuck.

He knows what Sam looks like when he's having a vision. He hates it, but the sight was imprinted on his mind the first time it happens. He catches his brother to his chest and holds him steady as the kid thrashes, his legs kicking. His hands fist in the ground and his body arches, fighting to escape Dean's implacable hold.

"Shh, it's ok, Sammy," Dean murmurs into his hair, "I gotcha. I'm here. It's ok."

It lasts for what feels like forever, until his legs cramp and his arms ache and the cold sets his teeth to chattering, until Sam's body slowly relaxes, the tension easing as he slumps against the forest floor and his brother's arms.

Dean doesn't let him go.

Until he hears his brother and not the nonsense words of a mystic, he won't let go.

They stay there until the forest is dark and the fire flickers in Sam's little hut. Dean spares a single thought for Castiel, sleeping in the dark alone, and the fire that will burn itself out, before he turns his attention back to Sam.

His breathing is even now.

Dean feels the moment the visions finally release him.

His whole body shivers and he curls closer to Dean, for one moment a child seeking a familiar protection.

For as long as he needs, Dean allows it, pushes sweaty hair off Sam's forehead and rubs the tense muscles in his neck.

Then Sam shifts and sits up.

"Dean."

His voice is raspy and weak.

"Vision?" Dean asks. Sam nods, all loose limbed and awkward, the familiar lethargy settling in.

Fucking visions. Kid was already tired and then he got slapped with this.

"C'mon, Sam. You can tell me all about the cryptic future tomorrow."

"Dean," he protests, stumbling as Dean pulls him to his feet. He grunts as Sam takes the hint, leaning his weight into Dean and they make slow progress back to the house.

"Dean," Sam tries again, "it's important."

"Sam, it's always important," Dean grunts, dragging the kid through the small clearing. Baby watches them curiously, nickering softly at them. Dean ignores her and drags Sam into the house.

"What--" Castiel lurches in the bed, struggling upright and Sam shivers.

"Dean, listen," Sam slurs. "Something is coming." Cas goes very still. "Someone from across the wall, Dean. They're coming and you have to keep him safe.  He's important."

Dean looks at Castiel and then back at his brother. "Sam."

"Dean, _promise_ me," Sam snarls and Dean closes his eyes. Sighs.

"Yeah, Sammy. Ok. I promise." He can feel Castiel watching him, but he kept his attention firmly on his brother, lowering him to the spare cot where he’s been sleeping since Cas arrived. Sam collapses on it and shivers as Dean covers him with furs.

“He’s important, Dean,” Sam mutters through chattering teeth, and Dean nods.

“I know, Sam. I heard ya. We'll take care of him.”

It’s the only thing Sam needs to hear to relax and the tension sliding free leaves him almost boneless, ragdoll limp in Dean’s arms. He mutters a curse and wrestles his brother into something that looks like a vaguely comfortable position.

When he turns, Castiel is crouched by the fire. He’s feeding sticks into it, his face tight and white with pain.

“Dammit,” Dean snaps.

“He needs the warmth,” Cas says. He flicks a small smile in Dean’s direction. “I’m not as fragile as he thinks, Dean. I’m perfectly capable of stoking a fire. Get some more wood.”

Dean hesitates for a moment, and then huffs. He isn’t ready for a mobile Castiel. When he was confined to the bed, he was safe, an easy threat to handle.

That’s something to consider another day. Right now--

“Get back in bed, Cas,” Dean says, and blue eyes snap up, wide and startled. Dean flushes, but he doesn’t look away as he moves to the Roman's side. Takes him by the arm gently, and pulls him to his feet.

Standing this close, Dean can feel the slight difference in height, the weight and strength of the other man, the heat of his body through the bloody tunic.

"If you tear open your wounds trying to build a fire, Sam will throw a fit and I don't think either of us really wants that."

A tiny smile quirks his lips and blue eyes grin at him. "Scared of your brother, Dean?"

He snorts, and his thumb smoothes down the roughspun tunic. Brushes over the curve of Castiel's arm and the other man shivers.

"Not scared, Cas. But you've seen when he gets in a mood. You wanna deal with that shit?"

He lets out a tiny laugh, tremulous and weak. "I see your point. Perhaps I should return to my bed."

Dean nods his agreement and steps back.

Castiel stumbles a little as he makes his way back to the bed, and Dean follows, catching him as he sways dangerously. He's pale and sweaty, and he's shaking as Dean lowers him to the bed.

"Didn't think I had enough to deal with? Had to go and add your own collapse to Sam's?" Dean demands, but it's not as sharp as it should be.

"You--why are you being so nice to me?" Cas demands.

"You heard me promise." Dean says, softly.

"But--why? It doesn't make sense. You hate me."

"I hate Romans," Dean corrects. "And Sam says you're important. I promised to watch out for you, and until I know exactly what he saw, I'm not going to risk breaking that promise." He crooks a tiny smile at Castiel then. "Don't worry, Cas, I'll probably kill you in the morning."

His lips twitch in response to the threat that doesn’t feel as threatening as it should. "Why do you call me that?"

"Um." Even in the flickering light of the fire, Castiel can see the color climbing in Dean's cheeks.

He is beautiful. Sitting in the gloom, his hands rubbing over the rough leather leggings, his face soft despite the tattoos that mark him as a warrior, despite the long hair that hides his eyes, despite the knife at his side and the rough furs he's draped in--as he sits in the semi-darkness, his hands stilled for once, his green eyes flicking between his sleeping brother and a man he should hate. He is beautiful.

And Castiel can never touch him.

He knows it and it still twists, painfully, in his chest.

He can feel the phantom touch of Dean's fingers on his arm, soft and steadying, holding him up and gentling his nerves.

"Castiel is a big name. I'm just a warrior--I don't have need for big names and fancy titles. Do you--do you not like it?"

Cas's eyes close, because he can't bear to see the strangely vulnerable look in Dean's eyes as he glances at Cas from under the shadow of his eyelashes.

He doesn't even realize, Cas thinks.

"My brother--Lucius--he used to call me Cas."

Dean is quiet for a moment, and then, "Used to?"

He swallows hard, thinking about that last campaign in Gaul, about the way Lucius had looked at him and Gabriel, his face wild and bright and bloody.

"He doesn't call anyone much of anything, anymore." Castiel says, softly.

Dean is quiet, and it's comforting. He doesn't apologize for something he had no hand in, doesn't offer meaningless words that will change nothing.

He's quiet, and Castiel allows himself to rest in that silence.

~.~

The wall fades behind him as he picks his way through the trees.

He can feel the gaze of small animals, and the whisper of wings in the darkness, but he ignores them.

Balthazar wasn't wrong, to worry about him.

Going into the wild north of the Wall in the hope of finding Castiel was suicidal and could very well trigger a war.

Inias firmly turned his mind to other things. The consequences of getting himself killed out here would be Balthazar's to sort out.

It's easy to find the line--a clear divination between the wildness of the woods marked with hoofprints and walking paths, and untouched forest.

The reason for the dividing line is less clear.

For a moment, he hesitates. If he learned anything from their time in Gaul and that short stint he did in the north, facing the Germanic tribes--the time that Castiel loved to rage about and that Inias refused to discuss--it's that honoring the customs and beliefs of the enemy went a long way in keeping you alive.

But.

Castiel would hide where he was least likely to be found.

A tiny, fierce smile twisted his lips and he moved into the untouched forest with the gliding stride of a natural predator, melting silently into the dark.

 

**VIII.  Beyond the Wall**

He wakes first, and for a few moments, lays still, assessing the pain in his side, the low throb in his shoulder.

It's manageable. Not quite as sedate as he would prefer, but manageable.

He should leave.

Go back to Wall.

Gabriel will be furious and on edge--he was a little surprised no one had been sent over the Wall for him yet.

But then, maybe someone had.

But.

His head rolls to the side, and he sees Dean. He looks soft, gentle, his eyelashes twitching on freckled skin and intricate tattoos. Long hair, in clumps and braids, spreads like a wave around his head.

He's from the heart of Rome, an Empire that prides itself on beauty and elegance, but he has never seen anything as lovely as this Pict warrior with a gentleness that startles him.

He wants to stay here. In this quiet peaceful glade, with Sam and his herbs and potions, with Dean and his rough voice and sharp glances.

He likes it here, more than he has any right to.

The sun is coming up, through the trees, birds singing louder in the forest.

He's still watching Dean when the other man blinks awake, and he watches it, watches it wash over him like the sunrise, a slow flutter of long lashes and a sleepy smile that he knows damn well isn't meant for him.

It's the warmest look Dean has ever given him and he allows himself to revel in it for longer than he should, while Dean wakes up.

"Good morning, Dean," he whispers, into the quiet cabin.

"Mornin', Blue," Dean mumbles back and for a while, as the forest wakes beyond this small haven, they enjoy the silence together.

~.~

“You gonna tell me about your visions, Sam?” Dean asks.

They’re standing outside, and he’s stroking Baby’s mane, working knots out of it with gentle fingers. She leans into him, steady and grounding and warm.

Sam brushes at her coat, gaze unfocused. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“They rarely do,” Dean answers, dryly. “Tell me anyway.”

“Cas is important,” Sam says softly. “He’s--there’s a wall and a fire and so much blood and every drop spilled, feeds the fire, until it consumes the forest, consumes the wall, it’s eating up the world. It rages from the wall to the sea, and spreads to the south.”

Dean stares at his brother, and he wants to shake him. Wants to silence the words.

“And Cas?” he forces out.

Sam shakes his head. “You. You walk through the fire, and it burns you--it hurts. He does as well, but--when you walk together, the fire does not touch you and the blood does not spill.”

“Do we put the fire out?”

Sam’s eyes are glassy and he shivers. “No. No, but it is not as strong. It does not spread as far.”

Dean bites his lip and pets Baby’s mane down. She’s comforting, solid and reassuring as Sam calmly yanks the ground out from under him.

“Sam,” he starts and Sam straightens, his expression going tight and serious.

“You have to protect him.”

“How?” Dean snaps. “How the hell am I supposed to protect a legate? We should have killed him!”

“We can’t.”

“But you can’t protect me, either,” a weak voice says.

Dean huffs a sigh, and turns to face Castiel. He looks a little steadier on his feet. His face is pale but he’s not swaying like a stiff wind will take him down, so Dean is going to count that as a win.

He refuses to think about this morning, the way he had lain in the dawn, close enough to Castiel that he could pick out flecks of black in the other man’s eyes.

He refuses to think about the urge he’d had to suppress to ease closer to the other man.

“Why not?” Dean demands, belligerent, pushing aside the things he won’t think about.

Cas gives him an exasperated stare. “Because I need to return to my side of the wall. Preferably before my brother decides I’m dead and starts a war over it.”

“A legionnaire wouldn’t-” Dean starts and Cas’s eyes narrow on him.

“If it were Sam,” Castiel says, evenly.

Dean stops cold. Because he knows just how far he is willing to go to keep Sam safe, to protect him.

Those years that he has tried, desperately, to forget rise like a specter and he shivers. Pushes it aside along with the feelings he won’t consider.

“You aren’t healthy enough,” Sam protests.

Cas turns his gaze to Sam, quirking an eyebrow. “Will you keep me here against my will?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Sam snaps, furious, his jaw tight and stubborn.

“That,” a low melodic voice says, coldly, “would be a very bad idea.”

Dean spits a curse, jerking, and Sam nods sharply at Cas. Feeling his stomach dropping, he takes the two steps needed to put himself between Cas and the man emerging from the forest.

The stranger’s gaze glances briefly on the brothers before he focuses on Castiel with an unnerving intensity, his eyes lingering on his side and shoulder.

He has long, fine dark hair, skin bronzed by the sun, a lean build and flat eyes in a blank face--and he has a bow and arrow up, trained on Sam. Dean snarls and takes a step forward when Castiel grabs his shoulder.

“Inias, stop.” Castiel snaps.

“Angelus, they--”

“Saved my damn life and are under my protection and that of our house. Will you test me?”

Inias doesn't stir. If anything, his grip tightens on the bow just a little and Castiel shifted forward, pressing into the arm Dean used to hold him back.

“Please, Inias. Trust me.”

He glances away from Sam for only a moment, taking in the way Castiel stands, the way Dean is braced in front of him, and his eyes narrow a little, before he lowers his bow.

“Explain to me what the hell is happening here, Angel.” he spits, in Latin, and Dean smirks.

“Doesn’t matter if you use the language over the Wall or our own, little soldier.”

Cas turns and smacks Dean, hard, on the shoulder. “Don’t antagonize my men.”

“Man,” Dean corrects, not rubbing his shoulder. Not admitting at all that that hurt.

He does see the smile in Inias’s eyes, though.

Cas glances at Sam. “Do you think inside?” he asks, vaguely, and Sam nods. Like having a murderous Centurion showing up to retrieve a recently stabbed Roman was fucking normal.

Dean knows that’s not normal, even for Sam.

Inias scowls a little, but he doesn't argue with Castiel, merely lowers his bow completely and stalks to the little hut, ducking inside.

"Please," Cas murmurs. "I will explain. Trust me."

"You're a Roman," Dean answers, easily. He forces himself to not look at Castiel's face as he says it, forces himself to follow the other soldier into his brother's home.

Inias has taken the corner of the room, with his back braced against it, watching with sharp eyes as they file in.

"Explain, Castiel," he says, again, his voice sharp.

"Why are you here?" Cas answers. "No one is supposed to cross the wall."

"And yet, here you are," Inais drawls. "Care to explain that, Angel?"

"What I do in my spare time is not your concern." Castiel answers evenly.

"Except that you are our Legate, and your brother will start a war to keep you alive, and also, you were _shot_."

Castiel has the grace to flush before he tries to deflect. "How are things, back at the Wall?"

Inias laughs, short and sharp and knowing. "Gabe is ready to order the entire army to the north to retrieve you. Balthazar is very good at leashing him, but it would probably help if you would come home."

"I sent Morning," he says, lamely.

"Because that was very reassuring," Inias scoffs. "That damn horse is all that has prevented Gabe from moving thus far. And it won’t hold him much longer.”

“That was the hope. Why did they send you?”

Inias grins at that, and the air of barely contained violence eases, “Who the hell else would they send? Balthazar is busy keeping Gabe from starting a war. Besides,” and now his grin goes wide and cocky. “You know damn well I’m the best.”

Castiel laughs at that. Inias is the best. He always has been, at getting places he didn't belong with no one ever noticing.

Maybe for a foster son in the powerful Angelus insula, it was a way to survive.

Or maybe he was just bored.

"How long have you been north of the Wall?"

Inias shrugs, settles deeper into the corner as Sam stirs the remnants of last night's stew and dishes up a bowl for the legionnaire. He eyes it briefly and then gives Cas a curious look. At a short nod from Angelus, he begins eating. "Three nights in the forest? Four since I left the Wall."

"And the tribes?"

Inias' smile turns sharp. "Quiet. They aren't as good as I expected them to be. Never noticed me at all."

Dean bristles and Cas sends him a quelling stare. "And then, when I reached the dividing line, it was silent and merely following the tracks--there was only one set, and one horse."

His gaze darts to Dean. "Yours?"Grudgingly Dean nods and Inias makes an appreciative noise. "She's beautiful."

He finishes polishing off his food and then hands the bowl back to Sam. Gives Castiel an expectant stare. "Are you ready, Legate?"

"He can't leave," Sam says, sharply. Inias goes still, turning to stare at Sam with narrowed, flat eyes.

"What he means, Inias, is that I am not healthy enough. Not yet." Castiel says, bluntly.

"Then I will stay."

Dean makes a startled noise in his throat and Cas snaps, "Quiet! Inias, you can't stay here--you and I both know Gabe needs to be contained and the only way to do that--"

"Is if you return with me."

"And if I die on the trip back? What then? Think he'll take that very well?"

Inias scowls and Castiel heaves a sigh. "Go back to the Wall. Assure him of my safety. I  am not in danger here."

"You are a Roman Legate in Pict territory." Inias points out.

"And I have pledged to keep him safe," Dean says, finally interjecting.

Inias eyes him briefly. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Perhaps not, but it means something to me,” Castiel says softly, cutting through the posturing and dragging both of their attention to him. “It means quite a bit to me, Inias. Dean and Sam

have sworn to protect me. It’s important. And so is me not bleeding out trying to go back to the Wall.”

“You want me to leave you here. Castiel," Inias says and for the first time, he doesn't sound completely calm and in control. He sounds anxious, almost afraid, and his eyes are desperate.

"I will come as soon as I am able. Sam will see to my wounds and Dean will ensure that I come to no harm. And if he is not enough, I am still a Legate--I am perfectly capable of defending myself. You know that, Inias,” he adds the last bit gently, and Inias scowls.

"Go home, brother. Do what I need most right now."

"You mean, leash your rabid dog," Inias says with a scowl, but he straightens and hooks his bow over his shoulder and Castiel exhales. The worst is behind them, now.

"I will tell him you said that," Cas says mildly, and Inias grins.

"Please do. Gabriel always likes it when I compliment him."

Castiel laughs a little. “Good. Sam, can you spare a little space? I think Inias could use rest before he returns to the Wall.”

Sam nods, and gestures for Inias to follow him. It takes a moment for the other man to relax, and obey the silent order, but he does, and as he turns away, Castiel slumps, swaying.

“Hey,” Dean says, catching him with a strong grip on his arm. “C’mon, Cas. You idiot.”

“He’ll still shoot you,” Cas mumbles, and Dean breathes a laugh as he tugs the other man back to bed.

“Sam will let me shoot you if you don’t fucking listen and take care of yourself,” Dean says, softly, and Cas offers him a drowsy smile. He shivers a little on the bed, the sweat on his head chilling now, and Dean heaves a sigh. Reaches for the blanket and tucks it around him.

It doesn’t make any sense, this fierce warrior who is so gentle.

But Cas is tired of trying to parse out the meaning behind his actions. He burrows into the blankets and let his eyes close, pain and exhaustion quickly tugging him down.

But not before he feels rough, calloused fingers in his hair, brushing it back from his face.

 

**IX.  The Wall**

 

Gabriel waits until Balthazar is asleep, his body limp and heavy against the bed, before he crawls free and slips into the hall. Torches catch the gold in his hair, and turn his eyes hard and strange in the near darkness, eyes that the passing soldiers avoid, even as they snap to attention.

After the display Gabriel put on when they arrived at the Wall, none of them were anything but very cautious when it came to the golden-haired centurion.

But right now, Gabriel doesn’t give a shit who or what people think of him. He slips through the fort until he reaches the wall, and climbs quickly.

Balthazar keeps telling him that Castiel is fine. That Inias is going to bring him home, safe.

He wants to believe that. With every fiber of his being, he wants to believe that. But there is the undeniable truth that the last time Inias was sent to retrieve one of Gabriel’s wayward brothers, he returned with a corpse.

It wasn’t Inias’ fault. Gabriel knew that, didn’t blame the younger man. He likes Inias, with his sharp eyes and hidden smile, with the way he never strays from Castiel, is almost fanatical in his devotion and protection.

Inias has been in love with Cas for as long as Gabe could remember, since the first day he was delivered to the Angelus insula to be fostered.

It used to worry Michael and Lucius laughed himself sick over the obsessive boy.

But Gabriel has always appreciated that someone saw the same value in Castiel that he does, someone who would happily die to protect him.

He stands on the wall, the wind cool as it cut across the north and howled south, and waited impatiently for his brother to return.

For Inias to bring him home where he belonged.

 

 

**X.  Beyond the Wall**

“You realize,” Castiel says, from where Sam and he sit in the grass, “that your brother has an unhealthy attachment to his horse.”

Sam looks up. His fingers are stained red and dark green, and Castiel almost asks him what he’s working on but Dean always shakes his head when he looks too curious, so he keeps his questions to himself.

“Baby? Yeah. She--um, her family is kind of important to ours. My mother raised her mother--was the last horse Mama cared for. Dean kept her, hid her with our uncle when our father sold everything for drink. He’d run away, ever once in a while, run back to our uncle to care for her. Used to raise her foals and sell them to keep us in food and cloaks for the winter.”

“But then, after I came here, she had Baby. And Dean couldn't give her up. Looks just like her dam. So he kept her, trained her. Best horse in the clans now.” Sam adds, giving up the ghost of a smile. He finishes whatever he’s doing in the pot in his lap and wipes his hands on his pants. “But yes. His attachment to her is….disturbing, on some levels.”

Castiel smiles and tilts his gaze back to where Dean has mounted Baby, turning her in tight circles around the small clearing, using nothing but his knees and a low pitched voice to control her.

He wants, absurdly, to see Dean and Baby in the shadow of the Wall, racing alongside him on Morning.

He wants to see the wild smile on Dean’s face as the wind buffets him and he flies.

He has been here, now, for longer than he had been at the Wall. He can breath without pain, and his shoulder only aches when he insists on helping Dean carry wood for their fire.

There is, he knows, no reason for him to still be here. And every reason for him to return to the Wall. To his men and his brother and the future that belongs to him and not these strange men.

He found, every day, that he woke whispering, today. Today I will leave them.

And Dean will laugh, or Sam will look at him, bright eyed and warm, and he will put it off.

Until night closed in and the little house turned cozy and warm and Dean lay down near his bed, while Sam snores near the fire and they watch each other until he can no longer keep his eyes open.

Castiel has long since stopped lying to himself--he does not watch Dean because he is worried about what the warrior will do.

He watches him because he cannot look away.

Because he has tried, desperately, and is drawn back to his lazy smile and affectionate gaze on his brother, back to the way those green eyes seem to brighten when Cas is near.

He is falling for a man, an enemy, and he cannot seem to stop himself.

He isn’t even sure if he wants to stop himself.

Still. The words must be said. He licks his lips and watches Dean guiding Baby, his voice rising in her praises, now, and he chokes on them twice before he gets them out.

“Sam. It’s time I go back to the Wall.”

~,~

“Dean,” Sam says, patiently, and Dean glares at his brother, turning sharply to face him.

“Don’t logic me.”

“He’s healthy, Dean. It makes no sense for him to stay here. And it’s dangerous--you know we’re pushing our luck.”

Dean snorts. “The clans won’t push your boundaries.”

“No. But we can’t keep him hidden here forever.”

“And your vision,” Dean challenges. “You said I was to keep him safe.”

Sam frowns, hips lips compressing into a tight line. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“You know, vision or no, I can’t just stay here forever,” Castiel interjects.

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean grumbles, but he sighs, his gaze skipping between Castiel’s expectant face and Sam’s resigned one.

He’s fighting a losing battle and he damn well knows it.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. I’ll take him back to the Wall.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Castiel protests. Sam is quiet, considering Dean and then he nods.

“Yes. You will take him back.”

“I really don’t need an escort.” Castiel repeats, a little sharper.

Dean gives him a lazy smile that’s a few shades too sharp and shakes his head, “Cas, you’ve got no idea what you need. And your mine to protect, right. Even told your boy that, before you trotted him back home. So shut up and let me protect you.”

“That doesn’t change that I must go back,” Castiel says, sighing a little.

Dean nods. “I know. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

The day passes quickly. Faster than Castiel anticipates, watching Dean pack, watching Sam work over his herbs, his pestle and mortar, watching him twist little packets tight with twine.

“What are they?” Castiel asks Dean, when Sam hands them over and he tucks them into a small pouch.

Dean shrugs. “We don’t like killing clan. But sometimes it’s easier for him to move when they aren’t clamoring for his attention. Easier for me, too. It’s nothing that will hurt them--but distracting? We can do that. We are very good at that.”

The grin he gives Castiel then is feral and sharp and Cas wants to see it there, forever.

“You know you can’t deliver me to the gates.”

“Cas?” Dean asks, shifting their pack once more. He looks up and catches Castiel’s eyes, smiling green into steady blue. “Trust me.”

That was the problem, Cas knew.

He did trust Dean.

He trusted him too damn much.

Sam packed up meats and weapons and rolled up Cas’s too-Roman gear and pushed him into the worn leathers and furs that he and Dean both wore. “You’ll never pass for a clansman up close,” Sam says, grinning when Cas gives him a curious look, “But if we can get you to look like one from a distance, it will help. The entire clan knows Dean keeps strange company.”

"Aside from me?" Cas says, dryly.

 

Sam smirks. "If you were the strangest thing my brother brought home, I think I'd be happier. Sleep sounder, that's for damn sure."

 

Cas let's that turn over in his mind as he helps Sam pack them, but he's set it aside by the time Dean pokes his head out of the cabin, and calls them both into the fire.

 

Dinner is subdued, a quiet thing. Their departure is hanging over them and Sam's eyes are distant, tired.

 

Not the kind of distance he gets when he's in the grip of a vision--Cas has seen that twice since Sam took him in, and he won't quickly forget it--but it's the kind of quiet absence that makes him wonder if Sam is worried about him.

 

Dean is silent, too, picking at his stew and flicking the bits of vegetables into Sam's bowl, smirking when Sam doesn't seem to notice.

 

Cas catches his eyes in the flickering firelight and he grins, quick and bright and it stings because he has gotten used to this--to Dean's antics and Sam's quiet and their smiles and conversations and he doesn't know how to go back to a life that doesn't include it. Doesn't include them.

 

He chokes down a few more bites of stew and then pauses, just loosely holding the bowl in his hands.

 

Dean takes it, gently, and nudges him toward his corner. He blinks and realizes Sam has already retreated to his bed, rolling tight into a ball.

 

"Go rest. We've got a long few days ahead of us."

 

He nods and curls on his pallet, staring into the darkness as Dean moves, banking the fire and tucking away their meal, closing the little home down for the night.

 

Castiel knows he should stop, that watching Dean like this is dangerous, that the warrior is too aware of his surroundings to not notice the avid gaze. But he doesn’t do it often and he will be gone tomorrow, back on his side of the Wall and if luck holds and the gods will it, he will never see Dean again.

 

Watching him now seems like a poor trade-off.

 

Dean ignores him as he finishes, and strips off his furs before he crawls into the nest of blankets near Castiel’s pallet and for a moment, he thinks he got away with it. That Dean didn’t notice and he won’t be called on his strange habit of staring at things he has no business watching, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases out, as he breathes.

 

And then Dean shifts, and the fire gleams in his eyes, making them shine and Cas’s breath catches a little, at the wry amusement there, at the tiny smile that curls the edges of his mouth, at the way his gaze is both shy and hungry, demanding something that Cas cannot put a name to.

 

“You’re leaving,” Dean murmurs and Cas nods, his breath caught in his throat. Dean’s smile turns a little bit wicked and he says, innocence embodied. “Are you going to leave, having only watched me. Without ever touching what you see?”

 

 

[ ](https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--vY41EKuiFo/Wfn9UaERzwI/AAAAAAAADhY/a-N3O_lP34oDc2_OVKB95p2Qzb83iHb2QCLcBGAs/s1600/DCBB17-1.png)

Cas feels like the whole world stills, and Dean glances at Sam, turned into the wall and snoring softly, before he slips across the small space separating them.

 

The first touch is butterfly soft, a barely there brush of his hand over Cas’s, glancing and retreating and then it’s back and Cas can feel the callouses from hard work, can feel the soft pads of his fingers that are so light on Baby, and now they’re wrapping around his wrist, holding him close, and he feels like he’s drowning as Dean comes closer in slow inches, a tiny teasing smirk on his lips, and it’s driving Cas crazy.

 

There’s a small furrow to his brow, the slightest hint of vulnerability in his eyes, and it tugs something in Castiel.

 

He breathes a low, “Dean,” and reaches out, lacing their fingers and tugging him close, until finally.

 

Oh gods, _finally_.

 

The kiss is like everything else between them. Slow and careful, glancing brushes of lips before they retreat, measuring and coming back, a sweet back and forth before Dean’s hands grip him hard and tugs Cas in. He can taste Dean now, can tug on his bottom lip with gentle teeth, can suck on his tongue softly until Dean makes a noise, soft and low and slamming into Castiel, low and aching, and he pushes, suddenly, pushes Dean to his back and kisses him hard, groaning into his hot wet mouth as he grinds down against the sweet heat of him.

 

He doesn’t want to go.

 

He doesn’t want to leave this.

 

Doesn’t want to leave _Dean_.

 

He isn’t sure when he stops kissing, when the frantic biting kisses he’s pressing into Dean’s throat turn into whimpers. When Dean stops gripping and his hands turn soft and steady, soothing.

 

He doesn’t know that any more than he knows when he fell in love with this land or this man.

He only knows it happened, a slow sure thing as he slides into sleep.

 

**XI.  Beyond the Wall**

 

The sun has not yet risen, when Sam shakes him.

If the mystic finds it odd to see Castiel curled in Dean’s arms, he doesn’t say. He only nudges Dean awake and says, “It’s time.”

It takes no time at all to rise and gather the remains of Castiel’s belongings, no time at all before he’s standing outside the little hut and staring at Sam with big eyes.

“Thank you,” he says awkwardly. “Thank you, for saving me.”

Sam smiles, easy and familiar, and nods once. “Take care of yourself, Cas. You’re still important.”

“We gotta go, Cas,” Dean says, softly.

Sam tugs him into an awkward hug and Castiel smiles into his shoulder before he steps back.

Dean boosts him onto Baby and then glances at Sam. “See you in a few days." 

“Be safe. Stay close to him.”

Dean nods, and swings up behind Castiel, soothing Baby when she dances under him, all nervous energy and eager to run.

He touches his heels to Baby’s side and just like that, they’re gone.

 

~.~

For a while, they’re silent, Dean steering Baby through the still dark woods, humming soft and tuneless in Castiel’s ear. Cas finds himself drifting a little, lulled by the familiar cadence of Baby’s gait, so similar to Morn’s, and by Dean’s voice, soft and pleasing in his ear.

“I don’t want to go,” Cas says, softly, as he drifts near sleep.

“I don’t want you to,” Dean admits. The words are spoken so quietly it feels like a secret, something sacred and hidden. Like whispers in the dark, fragile and unexpected, a trust that will shatter in bright light.

It doesn't change anything, knowing. It changes less even than the kiss they shared, because it doesn’t matter how much they might want it otherwise, their lives are too separate, too different.

Dean’s people would kill Cas. Castiel’s brother will start a war to avenge him, even if he did not need that vengeance.

He thinks, suddenly, of Hannah. Of the way her eyes would follow him around the villa, of the way she moved, always aware of him, turned to him even as she served Anna. He thinks of the tremulous smile on her face as she stood next to Anna, bright, furious Anna, and watched him leave.

He thinks of Hannah, and her quiet steady love, the way she would listen to him when he was a child and fascinated with insects in their garden. 

He thinks of Inias, who has walked at his side for so many years, quiet and steady and fiercely loyal. Of Uriel, who died, who loved him, of the wide smile he wore when Cas pushed him into bed.

He thinks of all the many chances he has had, to love.

And how easy they would have been. Effortless, to be with them, even with Uriel.

But always, there was something some quiet force that held him back, made him hesitate, made him reserved where they had loved, blind and wholehearted, and it’s not like that, with Dean.

Dean is easy, as simple as breathing, and as impossible as blocking out the sun.

He is everything Castiel never realized he wanted and everything he cannot have, and as he leans back into the other man, he hates the life that brought them here, so very close and worlds apart.

“I’m sorry,” Dean offers, when he’s been silent too long, and he leans into Castiel, presses a kiss into the curve of his shoulder, and Cas shakes his head.

“I’m not,” he says, honest and deep and rough.

Dean doesn’t answer, but his arm tightens, almost painfully tight, around his waist.

“Dean,” Cas says, later that day. He’s leaning against a tree, watching Dean run his hands through a cold stream while Baby waits patiently nearby. “What about Sam’s vision?”

Dean frowns into the water like it’s got answers it hasn’t given up yet and he’s personally offended by its lapse.

“I can’t always protect you, Cas. Our worlds don’t allow it.” he pauses, flashes a small smile.  “Besides, how do we know that I haven’t already done what the vision wanted?”

Castiel watches him watch the water, and asks, his voice low, “Do you think you have?”

“No,” Dean admits, frustration in his voice. “But there is only so much I can do, Cas. You--I can’t protect you here, not indefinitely. You’re safer on your side of the Wall.”

“Are you safe?” he asks, the question that’s been sitting on the tip of his tongue for what feels like weeks.

He’s seen the weapons Dean carries, helped Sam prepare for their journey through the clan territory, back to the Wall.

None of it suggest a safe life, and that--that disturbs Castiel far more than he wants. 

“I’m as safe as can be expected,” Dean says, evasive. Which is not an answer, and he feels it, suddenly, in his gut. A sharp ache of fear.

“I won’t know,” he says, low and sick with realization. Dean rises, and approaches him. They’re of a similar height, but in this moment, he feels small, fragile, and Dean’s arms around him feel like all that is holding him together.

"I won’t _know_ , if something happens to you.”

Dean touches his jaw, draws his head up until Castiel is peering into bright green eyes.

“What if I signaled? Hmm? There is a sapling, just past the tree line, between the Wall and the forest. It’s about a mile east of your gate. Every full moon, I will fly a standard there, for the entire night. And you will know I’m safe.”

“And if there is no standard?” Castiel murmurs, his throat tight and closed.

“Then you will know I am gone.” Dean says it simply, like his mortality is that easy to dismiss.

Cas stares at him, and sees the tiny smile on his lips, the kind of relief gleaming in his eyes, and Cas nods, once, then again, almost frantic until Dean catches him and pulls him close, kisses him hard, until Castiel makes a broken sort of noise, leaning into it, and Dean answers by pressing bruising kisses into him and for a moment.

Just this one stolen moment.

They are happy.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

** Part 2: The Long Winter  **

 

** I. The Wall **

 

Winter in the North is different than winter in Rome.

There is nothing to cut the wind as it sweeps through the forest and across the vast plains. There is nothing to ease the snow that falls in sheets, blanketing the entire countryside in a shimmering white that hurts to look at.

There is nothing to occupy them, nothing beyond the drills that quickly grow old and the patrols that are so routine he's sure that half his men perform it in their sleep, nothing but games of dice and old manuscripts he's read often enough he has them memorized, and his brother watching him with sharp, assessing eyes.

It's been almost six months since he returned to the Wall.

Six months of waiting and patrolling and missing something he cannot talk about, cannot even confess to missing.

He isn't stupid enough to think he's fooling Gabriel or Inias, and Balthazar has always been smarter than any of them gave him credit for, with his quiet watching and his sly smile and his ability to manipulate Gabriel into doing exactly what the older blonde man wants.

No, he isn't foolish enough to think they haven't noticed his quiet withdrawal, but they aren't pushing him about it and he'll take that.

When he first returned to the Wall, they were furious. Dean had taken him to the treeline, had pointed out the small sapling.

_ There, Castiel. Every full moon, I will signal there. _

He'd kissed Cas then, a deep, desperate sort of thing, and watched him with eyes filled up with grief and worry.

_ Go on, Blue. Go home. _

Castiel went, creeping across the wide open space, and he could feel Dean watching him as he went.

He wanted to turn back, wanted to drag Dean across the wall with him, wanted everything he couldn't have.

He swallowed all that want down, and crept across the border, and when he banged on the door and yelled his name, rough hands pulled him inside and the faces he saw were clean and unmarked, the hair short and dirty, but lose, none of the tattoos and braids he had so quickly become accustomed to.

And it stung, more than it should. It stung enough that he closed his eyes and waited, while someone ran to find Gabriel.

It was hard, being back. There were the curious looks, of course, but those weren't as bad as he feared. His men were well trained and they didn't push--they knew they had no right to.

But Gabriel did.

Gabriel watched him, and when he was tired, when he was quiet and his gaze strayed to the line of trees beyond their wall, when he relaxed for a moment, and allowed himself to remember.

_ Did you like it there?  _ (yes)

_ Do you know why they let you live? _ (yes)

_ Tell me about the mystic. _ (Gabe, you would have liked him.)

_ What was his name, the warrior? _ (He was mine. My warrior. Dean. Dean was mine.)

_ Why did he protect you?  _ (I--it’s complicated.)

_ Castiel. What are you lying to me about?  _ (Everything)

_ Cas. Do you want to go back?  _ (Gods, yes.)

He rarely answers Gabe’s questions. He always listens in silence, staring into his brother’s strange eyes and when Gabe has raged, or teased, when he has badgered and thrown himself against the quietly immovable rock that is Castiel...

Then Castiel slid quietly past him, padded silent and wraithlike through the fort, until he is lost and alone and only then, when no one is watching him, does he allow himself to miss everything that he left behind.

 

~.~

 

The first time he slipped from the fort, and walked the length of the wall, Inias followed him. He didn’t comment on the way Castiel watched the standard on the tree, a long length of crimson flickering in the wind.

The second time, it was Balthazar, and he never shut up. Walked at Cas’s side and talked about the soldiers, about the cold, about Gabe’s ill mood and the supplies from Rome and if Castiel thought they’d get to go home soon and the state of the celestial beings, until Cas’s teeth were clenched in an effort to choke back the growl building in his throat.

Balthazar goes blessedly silent, when he sees the tree, sees the red cloth. The night is quiet, still, and it barely stirs, but it doesn’t matter. It’s there.

He stays silent until Castiel turns back to the fort and begins to walk. Then he launches into another rambling monologue and it drowns out Castiel’s thoughts, for a time. He finds himself inexplicably grateful.

The third time, Gabe appears, wrapped in a long red cloak that fairly screams centurion. He offered Castiel a sugar cube he knew Gabe had stolen from the stables, and paces quiet at his brother’s side until they reached the tree.

Castiel goes still, staring at it.

The tree lost its leaves for the winter, sometime between the last new moon and this one, and its bare branches are skeletally thin, reaching for an empty, mocking sky and it’s--

Empty.

Nothing flutters in it’s branches.

There is no red flashing across the night sky.

They stay until the sun rises, Castiel huddled in the cloak that Gabriel spread over them, watching the tree like it might magically sprout a red banner.

Then Gabriel pulls him to his feet and almost carries him home, pours him into bed and tells the other two what happened.

Castiel doesn’t believe it, not really. Anything could have kept Dean from the tree, could have busied him in the forest. He assumes the worst, but he doesn’t believe it, because this is Dean, his cocky, brave, brash warrior, and nothing could touch him.

He walked through the clans wrapped in good will and his brother’s protective touch.

Wherever he was, whatever had kept him from Castiel--he was fine.

But the fourth month proved the same, and the fifth--and by then, Castiel didn’t bother going to the tree. Inias did, while Gabriel and Balthazar watched Castiel get himself completely and utterly drunk. When he returned and gave them a brief shake of his head, Castiel wasn’t quite drunk enough to miss it, wasn’t drunk enough to convince himself it meant something--anything--else.

He felt sick, and it wasn’t the wine and beer swimming in his gut.

It was from the unshakable knowledge that Dean was dead. 

He doesn't allow the tears in his eyes to fall, though. He forces them down and clings to Inias and Gabe when they crawl into his bed, blanketing him in the quiet familiar feel of family while the world spins dizzy beyond his little room.

He's quieter. Fiercer when he spars with Gabe, and quiet in the halls of the fort. Withdrawn even from his brother and friends. He does his job and retreats, allowing Balthazar and Inias to do what they have always done--guide his legion with very little interference from him.

Gabriel is steady and silent by his side, always. Sometimes he thinks his brother is frustrated with him, with his withdrawn quiet, with his refusal to push the soldiers past the wall for any reason.

Frustrated with his grief that is by turns debilitating and furious, when they have lost so much more than a wilding he knew for less than a month.

But if he is frustrated, he holds to his silence, and stays near Cas as grief and loss gives way to fury.

The first time the fury wraps around him, he puts the legionnaire he's sparring with on bedrest for two weeks with a broken arm and twisted ankle.

Gabe takes to sparring with Castiel, then, riding out in the early mornings to clash and fight on the snow covered fields.

They come back limping and bleeding, snarling and snapping at each other--but lighter.

Just a tiny bit lighter.

Castiel misses Dean. With every aching breath he takes, he misses the brash warrior and his quiet brother.

And in the quietest part of the night, when Inias dozes at his door and Baltazar has dragged Gabe, drunk and flirting, to bed, he allows the ache of his death to steal his breath.

Alone, in his dark room, he sits silent and dry-eyed and broken.

 

 

** II. Beyond the Wall **

 

The clans gather slowly.

Sam hears it, whispered on the wind, and passed silent through the edges of his forest, a rustling summons that he ponders as he squats in a tree hollow, and listen to the clans passing nearby.

They do not notice him, hidden in their midst.

They won’t, unless he allows it. Some think it’s because he’s a mystic, using spells and magic to walk unseen.

It’s merely that Dean taught him how to drift through the forest without leaving a trail, without drawing its attention or ire.

He’s spent much of his life honing the skill, and he uses it, shamelessly, to his advantage when dealing with the sometimes simple-minded clans.

It worries him that they’re gathering. The last time the tribes gathered in large numbers, they went to war and the land ran red with blood.

He closes his eyes and the vision roars back, fire and heat and bloody snow. It’s worse now than it was before Castiel returned to the wall, before Dean—

He shakes himself and his thoughts and slips from his tree.

The clans are gathering and much as he dislikes it, his presence is required.

It is as awful as he expects.

The clans go quiet and still when he steps into their midst, drifting close with the scent of ash and snow, of herbs and blood.

He is a mystic, marked and respected, and yet he moves with the hunting glide of a warrior. His gaze flicks over the assembled faces, gauging and measuring, taking stock of them as he stalks toward the center of the encampment.

There are two men waiting there, and a woman with curly hair that frames her face like a cloud. Intricate tattoos twist in patterns that seem to bleed into skin as dusky as the night sky.  Her mouth is a hard line, even as her eyes warm at Sam’s approach.

He sinks to his knees in the mud in front of her, and she touches a light finger to his head. “You’re late, Samuel.”

“Was once told a wizard is never late,” he answers with a cheeky grin and her gaze goes sharp and exasperated.

“Boy, you’re not a wizard. You’re barely a mystic!”

“Missouri!” he whines, and she laughs.

“Go on, get outta the mud and greet your father, Sam.”

He grins and stands, turning to the two men who wait for his attention.

One is tall, and muscular, but lean. His eyes are hard behind his tattoos and his hair is a braided mess of gray and black that reminds Sam of an undeniable truth: his father is getting old.

He nods respectfully and John watches him with the kind of wary caution that has always marked their conversation and interactions.

It didn’t start when Sam left to become a mystic. It only got worse then.

For perhaps the millionth time in the past three months, he wishes Dean were here. They were always better with Dean there to stand between them, a buffer they both loved and who loved them enough to ease their words and their tempers.

The man at his father’s side makes a low huff of annoyance and steps forward, jerking Sam into a hug. He’s short and stocky, thicker than John, with long red braids shot through with gray and beard to match. His hands are the only ones that never hesitate to reach for Sam, the only ones besides Dean’s that have always steadied him when he stumbled.

“Missed you, boy,” Bobby mumbles and Sam smiles over his shoulder, squeezing him close for a moment.

These are the men who raised him, the woman who taught him.

The only other person to shape him into who he is today is his brother, and his absence gapes like an open, untouched wound.

"Missed you too, Bobby," Sam says and the older man releases him with a grunt. A dog sits at his feet, watching Sam with the big black eyes he remembers from his childhood.

He's seen those strong jaws rip out the throats of rabbits and deer and once, just once, a man stealing one of Bobby's horses. He rubs her silky ears and get a sharp nip for his troubles before she licks his hand. 

John shifts, drawing Sam's attention.

"Do you think it's wise to be here?"

"I'm very sure it's not wise for me to avoid it," Sam says easily, keeping his voice empty of the spike of annoyed anger he almost always feels when he's around his father.

"The clans don't trust you."

"The clans do trust me. They just don't _like_ me," Sam corrects. "Which is exactly the same way they've felt about Missouri for the past twenty years. Would you order her from our gatherings?"

It's a challenge, a subtle one, and John's lips tighten as Missouri gives him a dark stare. "Be very careful how you answer that question, John Winchester."

"You don't have anyone protecting you," John says, avoiding Missouri's gaze altogether.

Sam feels that now familiar sharp pang of loss and fury. "Whose fault is that?" he demands and Bobby makes a noise that could be a laugh.

If it were anyone else, it would be a laugh.

"I am still your chief," John says, voice even and cool.

Sam doesn't even bother arguing with that statement. The clans are waiting and arguing with his father while they wait at his back is as stupid as it is wasteful.

"Will you reside in the camp, or the woods, Sam?" Bobby asks.

He wants to retreat. Wants the little bit of distance to reestablish his personal boundaries, to remind himself that even if he is of the clans he is apart, separate.

But Bobby is watching him with sharp eyes that refuse to be hopeful and Sam has never been good at disappointing Bobby.

He glances at Missouri and she gives a tiny nod of her head.

"In camp," Sam says and he nods at his father as he steps away.

Missouri gives John and Bobby the sassy smile that seems to be her signature as she takes Sam's arm and leads him through the camp. Always, they are given a wide circle of space, and thought he knows the clans will come to them--to him--for charms and medicine and auguries, he feels the familiar sense of displacement that he always feels when he leaves his quiet pocket of the forest and moves among his kinsmen.

"Does it ever go away?"

"What's that, child?" Missouri asks, distracted.

"The feeling of being...other. Of being different."

She pauses and gives him a hard searching stare. Shakes her head sadly. "No, Sam. It doesn't. You're lucky, you know. You have Dean. He gives you a place to belong."

"Had," Sam corrects, icy cold wrapping around him again.

Missouri pauses, studying him. "You think he's gone. Truly gone this time."

"It's been almost four months, Missouri. If he were alive, he'd be home by now."

She snorts her opinion of that and starts moving again, dragging him along behind her and Sam wanted to complain--it was really difficult to maintain the air of enigmatic mystic when Missouri towed him through the clans like a recalcitrant child. She sends him a smirk, sidelong and knowing and he flushes and stumbles to keep up with her.

A tent has already been prepared for him, a small pile of furs tossed over sticks driven into the ground. Missouri nods at it. "You'll work with me in the days, but with my apprentice in my tent, you'll need your own place to spend the nights. Although," she frowns critically at it, "I suppose you could stay with your father and his warriors."

Sam shakes his head. "This is more than enough, trust me."

Something she says sticks in his mind, and he arches an eyebrow at her, trying his damndest to not seem too curious or--worse--jealous.

"You have a new apprentice?"

Missouri nods, waves a hand at the long tent in front of them. "She will serve her clan as a medicine woman, when I'm done with her."

"No visions?"

"Not everyone I teach is a psychic destined to guide the clans," Missouri says, exasperated. "You ought to know that by now. If you took your own apprentices, you _would_ know that by now."

It's a familiar argument--he'd been on his own, tending to his part of the forest and caring for his clans, for almost five years now, more than enough time to take his first apprentice or six.

And he still hesitated, refusing to do what he knew was his duty and privilege.

Missouri was losing patience with him, he knew, but she also was giving him the space he requested with big eyes and a quiet, _not yet_.

She hesitates now, watching him and he shrugs. Shakes his head.

"It's not time," he says simply. She heaves a sigh and shakes her head.

"Come meet my girl, then."

Sam obediently follows her into the long tent and Missouri bustles about, shedding her furs and removing the pouches and bags hanging from her shoulders. Her eyes are sharp as they watch Sam, assessing, but he doesn't actually pay attention to them.

To her.

The girl is sitting on the ground, her legs crossed and the tip of her pink tongue caught between her teeth as she measures out powders into a tincture.

Her hair is a wild mess of curls pulled back into a soft cloud at the back of her neck, and her eyes are fiercely focused on the medicine in her lap.

His breath catches and his voice cracks a little when he says, "Jess?"

 

 

** III. The Wall **

 

“You’re worried about him,” Balthazar says, his voice dipping low to avoid the always listening ears around them.

Gabriel didn’t look away from where Castiel sits. He’s listening to something a soldier —Bartharmus? Gabe doesn’t remember, stopped trying to remember all of their names years ago—is telling him as he picks at his dinner, and for all intents and purposes, he looks fine.

Almost happy, with that tiny curve to his lips, and a head that bobs along in consideration when Bartamus pauses to give him a chance to respond.

Almost happy.

But not. Not quite. Not when his eyes are so lifeless and his hair hangs lank and limp around his shoulders, when his skin has that pallid, pinched look to it.

No. There is much that can describe Castiel, these days, but happy is not the first word that sprang to mind.

“Are you not?” Gabriel asks, his voice light and amused and Balthazar takes a quick cautious breath. Because he knows Gabriel, knows his moods and his tells, knows when he’s upset and when he’s dangerous and when the mischievous gleam in his eyes will be destructive instead of amusing, like right now.

“At the moment, I’m worried about you,” Balthazar admits, and Gabe flashes a smile at him that’s a tiny bit reassuring, even if it is all teeth.

“He’s been different since he came back,” Gabriel mutters. “And worse with every full moon.”

“He’s hiding something from us,” Balthazar says, unnecessarily.

Gabe makes an irritated noise in this throat, “Of course he is. He has been since he returned,, Zar. Inias won’t tell me anything because he’s in love with Castiel, and getting Cas to talk about anything that doesn’t directly affect the men or the Wall is like trying to stop the Germanic tribes single-handedly.”

Although, he did have a brother who attempted it. Got himself killed in the process, which was—Gabe shuts down that train of thought and refocuses on the brother at hand.

“I think,” Balthazar says carefully, the kind of care he always seems to use around Gabe these days, “that Castiel will talk to you when he is ready.”

Gabe turns a dark stare on Balthazar, honey eyes burning. “Like Lucius did?”

“Cas isn’t Lucius. He never has been.” Zar says, voice quiet and even. Gabe jerks away, standing and stalking from the noisy dining hall. Castiel’s gaze flicks from Barthamus to the brother leaving the room before settling on Zar in a silent question.

He forces a smile he doesn’t feel and rises, hurrying after his furious lover.

Gabriel is fast and he’s tricky, and Balthazar knows better than to chase him—but he’s let this go long enough, let the fury and grief simmer below the surface for too long.

Sometimes, he wonders if they would be here at all, if he’d had the courage to talk to Gabriel after Lucius death. If he had forced the other man to grieve, let that rage and fury break against him instead of pranks that were in poor taste at best and deadly at worst.

Not that any of that mattered now, not when Gabriel is vanishing into the warren of passages that make up the fort, and he’s scared about what Gabe might do, now, with his temper spilling over.

“North,” Inias says simply, appearing from the shadows and Zar gives him a nod before he breaks into a run.

Gabe is smart, and he hides better than anyone Zar knows, but he’s been sleeping with the trickster for more years than he can easily recall, has spent most of his life at Gabriel’s side, and he uses that intuition and knowledge now.

It still takes him long enough to find Gabe that worry is licking at his heels by the time he ducks into the dungeon where prisoners are kept.

Gabe is sitting against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, something that could almost be called a smile twisting his lips.

Almost. If it wasn’t for the cold gleam in his eyes.

All of the angry worry drains out of Zar, staring at him.

“Gabe,” he murmurs, and comes closer. Close enough to touch, when he sits shoulder to shoulder on the cold ground in the bowels of their fort, but he doesn’t. He carefully keeps that tiny illusion of space and distance, and waits for Gabriel.

Gabe, who has always loved too hard and reckless, who cared about his family despite the constant backstabbing and political manipulations, who wanted his brothers together and happy despite knowing they couldn’t be.

“I can’t lose Castiel,” Gabriel whispers. “Not after Lucius.”

It hurts something in Zar, hearing that broken note in his lover’s voice, the tired defeat there. Gabe is never broken, never tired or defeated. To hear him like this now—he inches a tiny bit closer and Gabe—

Gabriel makes a low hurt noise as Zar slips an arm around him, before he melts into the other man, crawling into his lap to huddle there, head tucked firmly into the curve of Balthazar’s neck, his body shaking with quiet sobs.

“I can feel him going,” Gabe gasps, wetly.

“We won’t let him,” Balthazar murmurs, and Gabe sobs, the sounds lost in Zar’s shoulder and the dark heart of the fort.

They won’t lose Castiel. Not to the Picts to the North, not to his own spiraling grief, not to the endless wars and Michael’s pointless games.

They won’t lose him. Balthazar and Inias will do what they have always done, walk at the Angelus brothers’ side, the shield to their swords. It’s what they’ve always done, what they will always do. He holds his lover who grieves as much as he rages, and prays to every god he knows that Inias can keep Castiel safe and alive.

 

~.~

 

The sun is a bloody cut across the sky while he rode, Morningstar’s hooves a familiar drumbeat in his ears.

At his side, a black mare runs, small and quick and his gray stallion snaps at her until Inias veers away, cursing softly.

He could almost laugh. Morn, if nothing else, has not changed. He is still the vicious bastard he has always been.

Inias twitches his hands and Thea jumps forward, mane flying as they race across the snow covered fields.

It was moments like this, when he is flying that Castiel can almost forget. When he can think about something other than what is missing, who he will never see again.

Ahead of him, Inias has pulled Thea to a stop and Morning stretches out, a little push of speed that has them overtaking them, and—

Castiel stills as he takes in the sight.

He recognizes the men, sent to patrol the watch towers along the wall while the main force held the fort. It was a routine duty that everyone dreaded, and none more than in the winter. But it should not have ended like _this._

There is blood everywhere, spilled like wine at a feast, soaking into the white snow and muddy ground. His legionaries, cut down like dogs in the street, left strewn across the field like so much forgotten trash.

Inias is quiet and watchful, ever at his side as Castiel stares at the carnage.

His heart pounds and he can hear Sam’s voice again, eerie and familiar, whispering of death and fire and war.

“Cas,”  Inias says, softly.

“Go back to the fort, and bring the men,” he says, his lips numb as he stares at it. “We aren’t leaving them like this.”

“Castiel,” Inias says again, a little bit sharper.

Cas gives him a hard look. “Go, Inias.”

He swears, soft and creative and Castiel allows the hint of a smile to ghost over his lips before he nods sharply and the other man wheels his horse, plunging down the hill and back toward the fort.

Castiel stays, still and silent and watchful on the crest of the hill, watching over their dead.

 

** IV. The Wall **

 

It takes them three days to clear the killing field, to claim and clean and burn each body, even the fallen Picts. Inias had drawn him aside, shown him the dead they found among their own people and each time he saw a face covered in tattoos and long bloody hair, Castiel’s heart had stopped, only to resume, fast and frantic when he saw it wasn’t Dean.

He _knows_ Dean is dead. That is the only explanation for why he hasn’t hung a standard in three months.

But knowing that and accepting it are two very different things, Castiel is learning.

“Word from the South is Rome has sent supplies.” Inias says, as he rides at Castiel’s side back to the fort. Gabriel and Zar are nearby, Balthazar overseeing the men weary from burying their dead.

“We need it,” Castiel murmurs.

“Do we know who Michael sent to escort Rome’s regards to us?” Gabe asks lightly and Castiel gives his brother a curious half-look.

“If my spies know they haven’t said,” Inias shrugs.

Which could mean any number of things. He isn’t foolish enough to think Michael doesn’t want something. He just isn’t sure he cares what anymore.

They trot into the fort on a wave of tired men, and Castiel nods to Inias and Zar, dismissing them to their duties as he turns Morn toward the stable.

"You can't ignore Rome," Gabe says.

"I've never ignored our brother," Castiel answers mildly. "I just don't see the need to fixate on something I can do nothing about until it arrives on my door."

"And what of our dead? Is that something we should fixate on?"

_ Smoke and fire, and you walk with it, with him. And where you walk together, the death recedes. _

"I have given that all the attention it deserves and more. The Picts are on their side of the wall again, and as long as they remain there, I will not pursue them."

He swings off of Morn and the stallion dances sideways, but it's half-hearted. After the three days of clearing the killing field and constant vigilance, even his stallion is too tired to fight.

“They came to us, Cas. And they killed our men.” Gabe says flatly.

"Don't borrow trouble, brother," Castiel says, beginning to strip the gear from Morningstar. "It will be here soon enough.”

 

~.~

The caravan from Rome is sighted two days later, as Castiel leads a cohort out of the fort on routine patrol. He pauses there, the massive gates of the Wall already cracked open and gives Gabe a quick look. "Go and meet our guests," he orders, "Take Inias with you. I will be back by sundown, as originally planned."

Gabe gives him a sharp smile and two fingered salute, and Cas puts his heels to Morning's side, pushing him into a brisk trot as the mounted cavalry thundered after him.

Better by far that Gabe greets whatever envoy Michael sent. He does better playing nice with their sibling's many lackeys, something Castiel never had the patience or inclination to do.

Zar is silent at his side while they wheel to follow the curve of the wall, chasing it north to the guard tower nearest the recent slaughter.

“Not much to see this side of the wall,” Zar says, lazily.

Castiel gives him a sharp stare before he turns his attention back to the wide open green, the dark wood just beyond.

He isn’t foolish enough to believe there isn’t someone in the woods, watching his every move—he isn’t foolish enough to believe that they won’t take the first opportunity to attack the legion’s weakness. He feels a curious sensation, like he’s been here before, and smiles to himself as he remembers the last time he rode out from his side of the wall.

It was Inias who insisted that they do this. If the Picts were responsible for the thirty dead legionnaires, they came from north of the wall, and the legion needed to know how they scaled it, needed to shore up their defenses.

He remembers when they first arrived at the wall. Before that, to when Michael had shaken off his fury and said, this is simple:  go north, do your time, and come home.

He wonders how anyone could ever have thought this place, this wild and beautiful place was simple.

How they could look at it and see anything other than something vast and complex and savagely lovely?

 

~.~

 

The fort is in chaos when he arrives back, clattering in on a cold breath of wind with his mounted men behind him and Morningstar glaring murder at anyone foolish enough to get close to him.

It is very easy to tell who is new to the wall, the legionnaires who drifts to close and leaps back yelping when Morning’s big teeth nip hard at their arms and fingers and shoulders.

He grins as Zar laughs at one affronted legionnaire, and swings off the stallion. “Where is my brother?” Castiel demands, and a legionnaire, pale and exhausted and young--he remembers the boy from the  hellish week clearing their dead--points toward the fort. 

“Took the new Legate in from the cold, sir.”

Castiel nods his thanks and passes Morning’s reins over to the poor unfortunate soul. “Behave,” he orders the horse, and Zar chokes on his laughter as he swings off his mare and follows Castiel inside.

He can hear Gabe’s voice, loud and brash and furious, echoing from the hall and he gives Zar a quick look, seeing the worry there.

As he steps into the cavernous room, where the men gather for meals, he gives orders to the cohorts, and they host the occasional Romans wandering the wild countryside, he sees immediately why Gabriel is furious.

The man is lounging in one of the seats, his feet propped up on the table where Castiel’s men eat, and his eyes are cold and dismissive when they find the Legate.

“Ah, Castiel. I was wondering when you would be joining us, brother.”

Castiel pauses and swallows hard. Shakes off his immediate surge of unease and steps deeper into the room, as Gabriel snarls wordlessly.

“Rafael,” Castiel murmurs, “it is…surprising to see you here.”

“Michael trusts me,” Rafael says simply.

“Yes, well. Michael has always been an idiot,” Gabriel interjects and Castiel gives him an exasperated glare.

“Be that as it may, brothers. I am here, and I bring word from the Empire. You would do well to listen.”

He misses it, suddenly. Fiercely. The quiet grove and the cozy hut where they slept and lived and Sam worked. Where nothing touched them. It felt like a world apart, something stolen. And he misses it so much that for a moment, his breath catches in his throat and his heart aches and he can feel the gaping hole where Dean should be and isn’t.

Inias shifts, drawing him back to the moment. His eyes are probing, demanding, and Castiel remembers, abruptly, where he is and who he is facing. He turns back to Rafael, a smile fixed on his lips that feels too sharp, too feral.

“How long are you here?”

“Are you already eager for me to leave, Castiel?”

“No, we’re just curious how long your leash is before my brother snaps you back to his side,” Gabriel drawls, and Zar eases closer to him, pitching a hip into the wall and staring hard at Rafael.

He is a known quantity, something Castiel is absurdly grateful for in this moment. Rafael had been  a slave, a gladiator, when Michael found him, plucked him from the arena sands, and made him chief of his household guards. He was a slave bound for death, suddenly given wealth, privilege, and—most importantly—his life.  Rafael never forgot it or lost his gratitude to the Senator who so effortlessly changed his life.

Sometimes Castiel thinks that is the only reason his brother saved Rafael.

But then, sometimes, on very rare occasions, he will see Michael with Rafael and see the brightness in his brother’s eyes that he knows is affection and respect.  It’s something he once thought he would only see when Michael spoke to Lucius.

His brothers are complex and crafty creatures and it worries him that he doesnn’t know how their minds work.

It is strange that Michael had sent Rafael so far. A journey like this would take six months, not including the time he would spend with Castiel and the others at the Wall itself.

Whatever news he brought from Rome, Castiel is very sure that none of it is good.

“Show him to his quarters. Rafael, if you would like to join me in my chambers this evening, you can share with me what exactly was so important it made my brother send you of all people to the Wall. In the meantime—” he turns and gives his centurions an arch look. “I believe we have drills to perform and I know damn well the provisions will need to be sorted and stored. Please attend to that.”

Zar gives him a pouting little scowl and Gabriel slides a dark look at Rafael. Castiel shifts and his brother smiles, tight and cool. “Very well, brother,” Gabriel says, his voice almost deferential.

He doesn't say anything about Inias and the way he settles deeper into the shadows. With Rafael in the fort, he couldn’t order Inias to leave him unguarded even if he wished it and Gabriel agreed. Inias has never trusted Rafael with Cas’s safety.  So he doesn’t bother trying.

He nods politely as Gabriel pulls Zar away and Cas opens the missive from Michael. There is the expected news from home, words from Anna that he will savor later, when Rafael is not staring at him with sharp eyes, and there--near the end, is the reason for Rafael’s presence.

 

_ The Empire has decided that defending our interests in Germanica is more effective than tending a wall in the North. I disagree with this—we won’t win against the Germanic tribes, and throwing ourselves at them will only result in more death. I need a victory at the Wall, brother. Something decisive and bloody, that will appeal to the masses. _

_ Give me that, and you will return home a hero, with all the welcome and prestige and honor due any hero. _

 

There’s more, but it’s all couched in terms that would raise no eyebrows, easy to ignore pleasantries, and Castiel can’t focus on that.

He turns to Rafael, frowning. “What in the hell is this?”

Rafael smiles, cool, and crosses his ankles, stretched out toward the fire. “You noticed I arrived with a century of mounted troops? And two of heavily armored centuries? Why do you suppose that is?”

He knows why it is. He’s just trying very hard to think of any other reason. Anything that doesn’t add up to—”Michael wants me to start a war.”

Rafael cocks his head, a tiny smile turning his lips. Something dark and dangerous gleams in his black eyes. “Not _start_ a war, Castiel. He wants you to win one.”

 

** V. The Wall **

 

“Will you do it?”

Castiel shrugs and brushes some snow from the rough stone. It falls, silent and lovely, to land in the quiet gulf between him and the tree line.

“I don’t have a choice, do I? The tribes attacked us, and Rafael is staying until I’ve done what Michael wants. He isn’t just a delivery boy. He’s a watchdog.”

Gabriel is quiet. “And will you give him the war and bloody tribute that our brother has asked for?”

Castiel is a good brother. He is a good brother and an obedient son of the Empire, and he wears his military service like a laurel wreath, an honor that not all can claim.

And Gabriel is asking him now, if he will continue to cling to it.

Castiel gives him a wide-eyed stare and shakes his head, helpless. “I don’t know, Gabe. I don’t know what to do.”

Carefully, gently. “Castiel. It’s been six months. Are you ever going to tell me what happened, when you were in the wild?”

He makes a noise, almost a sob, and Gabriel wants to reach for him, to hug him and tease him, and wipe that broken expression from his face.

“I got shot,” Cas says, finally, his voice tight. Gabe snarls softly and Cas gives him an amused smile. “I got shot and I had the sense to hide. A mystic found me—one of the tribal healers and visionaries. He took care of me, and his brother—” Here Cas shakes his head, and closes his eyes. “His brother wanted to kill me. He didn’t trust me. Certainly didn’t trust me near Sam.”

“And yet you sound fond of him,” Gabe says, his voice gentle.

Castiel gives him a helpless sort of look, eloquent in its wordlessness. “Cas,” Gabe sighs. “The signals. Those were from the brother?”

Cas nods, wordless, and Gabe sighs. “Do you think he’s dead?” he asks bluntly and Castiel just barely contains his flinch.

Yes. Of course he is. It’s been three months, and there’s been no word, no sign, nothing.

Dean is dead, or forgotten completely about Castiel and even though that idea hurts, he prays to the gods it’s the truth because Dean would be alive, somewhere.

Gabe reaches for him then, gives in to the urge to comfort, and tugs his younger brother into his side with a soft noise of exasperation. “You can’t fight them if you’re in love with them, Castiel.”

He nods against Gabe’s shoulder, miserable. “I know. I didn’t—Gabe, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Gabe sighs and tugs him a little bit closer and his brother shivers in the dark, huddled against him and wishing for the impossible.

 

** VI. Beyond The Wall **

 

It whispers in the wind.

A soft rustle of leaves, the rumble of branches stirring, the quiet stir of underbrush disturbed.

The soft silence of the animals.

It is a thousand things and he listens to them and closes his eyes. He wants, desperately, to deny what he knows is coming, what is true.

He's never had the opportunity to ignore the cold truths of life.

He slips silent through the forest and listens to the whispers of it, growing and growing, until it is screaming, and he shudders under the screams.

The wind whispers of war and death and blood and he knows that nothing could slow the tide.

Sam stalks quietly through the forest. There are times when he is immersed so deeply in his role as a mystic that he forgets who he was before he trained at Missouri's feet.

Now, his hair pulled into a series of braids and tugged together at the nape of his neck, his face set in harsh lines of anger, there is no denying exactly who and what he is.

He is the War Chief's son, and Dean's brother, and just as deadly as both of them. He whispers and the fog follows him, waves his hand and slips away in a burst of smoke that left the warriors at his back shuddering and whimpering in fear.

He walks like death and fury and still, he refuses to kill.

Bobby keeps easy pace at his side, despite his age. He smiles when he murmurs to the small creatures caught in their traps before he cut their throats, pulling their intestines free and reading the future in the bloody spill.

He bares his teeth as he looks up and Bobby watches, steady and still, the way no one ever is with Sam, not anymore.

"What do you see," Bobby asks, a gentle prompt.

"Death," Sam snarls. "Needless and bloody."

"Any fool can see that's comin, boy." Bobby says, patient. “Your father wants a battle and the tribes will follow the War Chief.”

Sam spits a curse and pokes the entrails again, desperate for something other than what he knows he'll see.

"This is going to start a war."

Bobby grunts and pushes to his feet. "It will."

"Then _why_?" Sam snaps. "Why the hell are we--"

"Because your father is the Chief, and he has enough sway to make the other tribes fall in line. And if he says we go to war--Sam. You know we have no choice. We go to war."

"I stand apart," Sam objects. He glares at the bloody mess in front of him, and then sighs, setting to skinning and dressing the rabbit and handing it off to Bobby. He wipes his fingers clean on the underbrush and dirt.

"You do. If you chose to."

He stands and meets Bobby's blank stare.

He could stand apart. Bobby would never judge him. Bobby is the only one who never did--Bobby and Dean.

He closes his eyes and still, he can see the shiver of his vision. He can see Castiel, and fire, raging. He sees it still, the Wall and fire raging and Dean walking.

He doesn't understand the vision, not anymore.

But as long as Castiel is there in his vision, holding back the tide of war and blood and death--he cannot walk away.

They attack three times, testing the Wall and its defenses. The first two are quick and deathless, forays for information more than actual assaults, and he breathes a sigh of relief when the warriors return grim and grinning and bloodless.

The third.

The third, he watches from the Wall as they slaughter the legionnaires in the tower, cutting through them like terrors from the mist.

Mist he summoned and fed.

When it is over and the last of the warriors has melted back into the forest, he stood there, in the shadow of the wall and watched the field of the dead.

It was just a beginning.

He knew it and had no way of stopping it. He hoped that Castiel, wherever he was, would be able to stay free of the coming war.

He hoped that he could slow the blood that would spill.

~

They cross in silence, in the darkest part of night, when the moon is hidden away and the only sound is the soft rattle of weapons.

They come in twos and threes, and Sam watches with a kind of sick fascination. For the first time in his memory, the tribes mingle and twist with each other, and he wonders why it is this--why it is death and war that brought them to this.

"Sam!"

His head jerks up and he stares at the dark shape emerging from the shadows of the wall.

"Benny?" he blurts.

The big burly man grins at him, his face savage and dryly amused as he comes abreast the mystic.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugs and nods at the warriors slipping across the countryside, moving steadily toward the fort to the south. "Heard you were puttin' on a war."

He stares at the other man, not sure what to think.

He didn't know much about Benny--he knew that the older man came from the far north, near the sea swept coast, that he and his tribe savaged the coast in a fleet of swift light ships that swung in and out of the ocean like fast moving death before they retreated to their own lands.

He knows that Benny had befriend Dean, in the time when Sam was training with Missouri, and Dean was quiet and absent. When he returned, gaunt and haunted, smiling a forced, unnatural smile for his brother, he refused to speak of where he was and what he did during those years, only mentioning Benny on occasion and brightening when the savage warrior drifted into their territory or stopped by Bobby's lands. They would disappear for days, and Dean would come back silent and brooding but lighter, happy in a way Sam couldn't really define.

He stares at Benny now, and his stomach twists and he opens his mouth--

"Sammy," a familiar voice cuts through the night and Benny twists his shark's smile to the approaching warrior and Sam--Sam almost forgets the war.

 

** VII. The Wall **

 

Rafael is a strange presence at the fort.

He is quiet and watchful, always, something that leaves the men unsettled and anxious. Castiel is too used to the other man’s antics to pay much attention to them. He quietly orders Gabriel to patrol and sets Balthazar and Inias to training, and ignores Rafael watching like a spectre from the wall.

They’re still responsible for the wall, for the wide stretch of Rome’s interest, and Rafael’s words and hawk-like gaze won’t change that.

They spend two weeks searching the countryside before Castiel accepts that those responsible for the attack on his garrison have faded back beyond the Wall.

“We could go after them,” Gabe says, his eyes glittering in the low firelight.

Castiel shrugs, “What will that do, besides giving Michael exactly what he wants?”

Gabe shrugs. Stretches his feet toward the fire and sighs. “Are we choosing to give it to him?”

Castiel gives him a disbelieving stare. “Do you really think starting a war with a people we can’t even find is a wise idea, brother?”

Gabriel shrugs. Gives him a smile that’s all teeth. “I think if we raid their borders and burn their forests, we won’t have any trouble finding them—they’ll come to us.”

Cas gives him a dirty stare and shakes his head. “No.”

Gabriel’s eyebrow arches. “Are you thinking of defying our dear brother, Cassie?”

“Michael is an idiot a world away and asking me to do the impossible,” Cas says, flatly. “I will not throw our people into a war that we cannot win for a dream that we will never see.”

Gabriel eyes him. “Is this because of your wildling?”

There’s a long, tense moment of silence, and then, “Take the men tomorrow, in force. I want the garrisons remanned, and Rafael’s troops divided as much as we can manage without his interference.”

Gabriel nods once, in agreement and pushes to his feet, knowing the dismissal for what it is.

He’s at the door when Cas adds, “Do not speak of him again. Do you understand?”

Gabriel doesn’t respond, just slips into the night.

He doesn’t understand. But he is beginning to.

It’s two days later, and Rafael has reached the point in his hovering that even Castiel has lost all patience with him. Gabriel clatters into the courtyard, his mare dancing under him, blood streaked on her flanks. His troops pour in behind him but Castiel barely takes notice as he lunges to his brother’s side. “What?” he grits out and Gabe’s tight expression is bright and savage and gleeful.

His stomach flips even before Gabe speaks.

“The tribes. They’ve breached the Wall and massed, two leagues to the east.”

For one heart-stopping moment, he can only think of Dean, of Sam.  He wonders what happened on the far side of the Wall, that they are here.

Then Gabe snarls his name and he nods. “Form up. We’ll meet them in force.” He spins on his booted heel and catches the pleased smirk on Rafael’s face as he stalks into the fort, already shouting for the slave boy who would help him with his armor.

Less than an hour later, he’s perched on Morningstar and the pounding of his soldiers feet on the frozen ground matched the thrum of his heart as they ride out to war.

 

~.~

 

Sam hisses a curse, spinning away from the legionnaire. He snatches a handful of powder from his waist and tosses it in the Roman’s eyes as he slashes sharp and brutal with his dagger, and the man makes a choked noise as he falls back.

For a moment, he can breathe.

The battle is more than their warriors had ever experienced. They are a nomadic people, scattered and brutal, but it is a subtle thing—a sharp stabbing attack from the cover of their forests and mists, before they melt back into the shadows.

This—massing at the Romans’ feet—it is suicide, and as he looks around the field, he sees it again, the bloody truth his father had refused to believe.

They will die here, all of them.

A sharp clarion call split the sky and he looks to the west, where the Roman fort lay—and sees the column of legionnaires bearing down on them.

His gut churns and he scrambles away, toward the wall.

Jess is there, in the shadow of the wall, her arms bloody, her eyes bright and alive, and Sam wants to kiss her and shake her, and settles for jerking his head at the wall with a glare. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She lifts her bow and shoots smoothly and he hears a pained shout behind him as she gives him a wide, sarcastic smile.

“And if I weren’t, who’d be covering your ass?”

He is leaning toward strangling her, he thinks, and a shout came. The legion crests the hill and he shoves Jess at the Wall, snarling as she snaps her teeth at him before scrambling for the ropes and pulling herself up with a practiced ease.

His eyes scan the battlefield for a moment, searching and finds Benny, dragging a limping warrior. He shouts and Benny waves at the Wall with the big axe he clung to like a besotted lover. Benny then swung wide, knocking a legionnaire from his feet casually.

Sam glances back, towards the legion, and he see Castiel, cold and remote on the back of his enormous stallion as he plunges into the remains of the battle, and he feels his stomach twist.

He keeps his eyes open as he climbs the wall, scrambling for safety. If he closes them, he will see only fire and blood.

The warriors move through the forest silently, and it grates on Sam’s nerves as he and Jess dart along with them. She’s got blood smeared over her arm, and he wants to take her aside, demand to know if it’s hers or not, care for her and hide her from the war that’s coming.

He doesn’t. Just jogs at her side until they spill into camp, the warriors already splitting off to find their clan leaders. Jess turns away and he does reach for her then, catching her wrist lightly. “Are you hurt?”

She grins at him, shakes her head. “I’m fine. One of the injured was a little free with their blood. Tend to your chief, Samuel. I’ll keep.” She twitches out of his grasp and scurries away, all edgy smiles and bright eyes and he wants to follow her.

Instead he turns to where his father waits with Bobby.

“How did you fare?”

“We lost twenty warriors, and another two score are injured,” Sam snaps. Sixty men, and this was only a foray to press the Romans into action. They wouldn’t fight on an open field of battle—that was as idiotic as it was suicidal. The dream of driving the Romans from Britain was ludicrous, but John at least managed to hold onto that modicum of good sense.

“And the Romans?” John asked, his eyes cold.

Sam shakes his head. “We did exactly what you and the other chiefs demanded, Father. They’ll swarm our forests—they’ll have no choice but to do so.”

Sam prayed to all the gods that when they did, the tribes would be able to stand against the coming tide.

“You’re going to get us all killed,” Sam mutters, turning.

“Is that what your bloody guts tell you?” John drawls, and Sam stiffens.

John has always hated the mystic gifts Sam has, has always hated his visions and prophecies.

He doesn’t mind using the skills with plants and elements to his own advantage, but anything that reeks of magic and the chief almost breaks out in hives.

“No, Father. That’s what seventeen years as a warrior tells me. That’s what common sense tells me. The Romans have three thousand men stationed at the wall, and a legate who has nothing to lose, chasing us down. They’ll slaughter us.”

“We’ll take them with us,” Gordon, a neighboring chief, snaps.

Sam doesn’t really give a shit what that particular madman thinks. “This is a death sentence, and if you opened your eyes, you would recognize that,” Sam says, tired, and John’s eyes narrow.

“Stop it,” Bobby says, shutting down the chief before he can speak. “Sam, I belive Missouri is looking for you. I want you out of camp and back in your territory by nightfall.”

Sam nods sharply, and retreats, swallowing all his fury as he goes.

The problem with living alone, is that when danger comes—he is very alone.

The Romans come, sweep down from the wall in force, and into the forest, where the tribes melt from the shadows, picking them off and leaving dead in their wake.

But there is a small patch of forest, quiet and almost untouched, almost as if it is sacred, and the Romans move through it with ease, unmolested, wrapped only in the fog that seems to emerge from nothing and nowhere. A few—very very few—die in that quiet patch of woods, but it doesn’t take long, before they find him.

Sam sighs, sitting in his house as they draw closer, sipping his tea and thinking that it was only ever a matter of time.

 

** VIII. The Wall **

 

Inias walks quietly through the fort, listening absentmindedly as the centurion babbles about the day's patrol north of the Wall.

This is the part of his position that he doesn't enjoy. The constant checking and reports, the legion of soldiers who looked to him for answers and orders and everything he's never been particularly good at.

He doesn't want all of this. He wants, all he has ever wanted, was to serve at Castiel's side, to be the shield between him and the world.

He's good at that.

He's always been very good at that.

He sighs a little, and pauses. "Did you say we brought prisoners back from the Wall?"

That was unusual, despite Rafael's orders that he wanted as many barbarians alive as could be taken--Inias wondered just how low Michael had sunk, that he was sending his attack dog to fetch arena bait.

"Yes, sir. Twelve barbarians--two hunting parties, and a pair that were alone."

Inias shifted on the balls of his heels. Why did that settle so strangely in his stomach?

He was used to following his instincts, so he turned to the centurion. "Show me," he says, abruptly.

The centurion's eyes widen, but he scrambles to obey, spinning fast enough that mud sprays up from his boot and scurrying toward the fort's prison.

It's a disgusting and terrifying thing, their prison. It makes something curl inside him in sick shame--how had they sunk to this level of filth and disgust, they who were the apex of civilized culture, and this--this is how they treat their prisoners.

The first party is a group of feral wildlings, with long unbraided hair, intricate if poorly done tattoos and a distinct lack of weapons. He eyes them briefly before stepping on, to the next little hovel of chains, and the warriors sitting there. They're a sight better than the first, back straight and glaring, with blond hair pulled back in thick bands to hang free in long clumps.

They are silent and ignore him completely, turning to one of their number, a pale faced woman laying flat on the ground, hand clutching at the wound on her belly.

"Get a kit in here. The very least we can do is sew her up and wish for the best."

"Sir?" the centurion barks, a little startled, and Inias turns his gaze, flat and unfriendly and very unamused on the other man.

He pales. "Yes sir. Immediately."

Inias nods, and watches the girl for another moment. There is a tiny mole under her eye, almost lost in the twisting tattoos that cover her face and make her appear far older and fiercer than she could possibly be.

She glares at him, almost like she resents him for his help. Foolish girl. He smiles a little, and lets her wonder why, pushing himself the last few feet to reach the last hovel of chains.

There are two men, there, half hidden in the dark light of the prison, but he freezes, staring at them. Because he knows them.

He _knows_ that mystic.

“Have they been fed?” he asks, blankly, looking at the centurion at his side. The other man shrugs, like feeding a few wildlings is the last thing on his mind. In the cell, the mystic is stirring, nudging the man next to him.

“No, sir.”

Inias lets his mild gaze swing to the soldier, allows it to  go flat and cold and watches as he squirms.

Gabriel might have terrorized the garrison, but there was something to be said about the cool intimidation Inias worked.

“I’ll get them food,” the soldier says, quickly, and hurries from the room. Inias waits until he’s gone, before he turns back to the cell.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarls, low and fierce.

“Funny, thing,” Sam drawls, “your soldiers like to wander through my forest. It was really only a matter of time.”

Inias snarls softly, pacing before he bites off. “Castiel won’t like this.” Sam watches him, his eyes unreadable in the dim light of the prison cells. “Will he live?” Inias grits out. 

Sam glances down and nods. “Just needs to sleep off the knock on the head your boys gave him.”

Inias nods. “I’ll—I need to talk to Castiel. I have to leave you here.”

Sam arches an eyebrow and smiles, a little bit wry. “I did sort of assume you would,” he says. Inias hides his smirk until he’s left the prison and ordered all of the wildlings fed and given water.

He finds Balthazar in Gabriel’s quarters, stitching up a gash in Gabe’s bicep. He slips in silently and closes the door behind him, and both men pause to give him curious looks.

“I found him.”

Gabe frowns. “Who?”

Inias takes a deep breath. It’s betraying Castiel’s trust—if he wanted them to know, he would have told them.

But that was before. When he thought Dean and Sam were safe on the far side of the wall.

“When he was in the wild. Castiel was cared for by a mystic—one of the wise men who guide the tribes. And the man’s brother, a warrior named Dean.”

Gabe straightens. “Which one does Castiel love?”

“Dean,” Inias says. “He loved Dean.”

For a moment, there’s only quiet, and then Balthazar jerks on Gabe’s arm, all fierce demands as he resumes stitching it closed. “What should we do?”

“Tell him,” Inias says, immediately. “Tell him _now_.”

“He has a war to worry about. Throwing a mystic at him—Inias, we remove the prisoner and keep Cas focused on the job at hand. With Rafael here, it’s the only option that we really have,” Gabe says. 

Inias is shaking his head. “If Sam were not a mystic, maybe that would work—but we can’t release him into the wild, the tribes need him too much.”

He hesitates and then, “That isn’t why we have to tell him.”

Gabriel’s honey eyes narrowed at him.

“What _is_ the reason?”

 

~.~

 

“The campaign is off to a good start.”

Castiel didn’t flinch and didn’t turn to face Rafael. He finishes washing his hands in the basin and wipes his face with the rough cloth his slave boy offers before he scurries away.

Only then does he turn to Rafael. “We lost another three men today.”

“And we took another five of their warriors. Alive. A fair exchange,” Rafael says, evenly.

Castiel swallows the bile that wants to rise, and shakes his head. “By that math, we will all die, taking the North that my brother wants so damn badly.”

Rafael shrugs, laconic. “Possibly.”

Fury washes over him suddenly, and he wants to rage, wants to scream at Rafael because this is stupid, they will all die and what exactly does that do? Who benefits, except a politician a world away?

Instead, he says, “I have duties to attend,” and pushes past Rafael.

“You can’t fight the will of Rome, Castiel. You are still trying and it’s useless. Accept this.”

“I won’t accept a death sentence,” Castiel says. “Not for a politician who will never see the death his orders caused. If he wants his damn war, maybe he should come here and fight it.”

He shoves past Rafael, heading into the fort.

A heavy hand catches his elbow. “Would you defy your brother?”

Castiel glares down at the hand on him, and then up, up into furious black eyes.

“I suggest, little brother,” a silky voice says from the shadows, “that you take your hands off our Legate.”

He can’t see them, but he can feel them, the tension of his brothers, in arm and name and blood, at his back. He can see Rafael’s eyes flicking to each in turn before he releases Castiel’s arm and steps back.

“Think very hard about this before you decide to defy your brother, Castiel. You wish to return to the Empire in this life and will need his good will, when you do.”

“My brother sent me here to die. To fight a war and die for him. Forgive me if I don’t care too much about his good will at the moment,” Castiel snaps, too furious to censor his words, and Gabe laughs a little behind him.

He stalks away before Rafael can say anything, not really aware of where he’s going, only aware of Inias and Gabriel at his sides. Gabe’s hand at the back of his neck guides him as he stalks deeper into the fort, until he finds himself in front of the prison and he frowns at the wood and iron door.

“Why are we here?” he asks, his voice rough and confused.

There’s a stir of noise from inside the prison and Gabe shrugs as Balthazar unlocks the door. “I thought you could use a viewing of our recent campaign.”

He wants to argue, because he hates viewing the prisoners and Gabriel _knows_ it. But Gabe has shoved him into the prison, and he’s staring, at the wild faces and intricate tattoos, all so familiar and alien and—

His breath catches as he sees them, in the corner, Sam’s hair long and dirty in his face.

And—he makes a noise, a broken sort of thing, and Dean smiles, weak and tired but so alive it _hurts_.

“Hey, Blue. Miss me?”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

** Part 3. Walk Through Fire **

 

** I. Beyond the Wall. _Six months ago._ **

 

“You know that your brother is wrong,” John says, and Dean glances at his father warily. “He thinks we can stay on our side of the wall and the Romans will stay on theirs and all will be well.”

“And you disagree?”

John’s lips curl into a snarl. “I think they’re savage wrapped up in a pretty veneer and they want something, or they wouldn’t be here.”

Dean wishes he could argue with that assessment. But—”They haven’t crossed their wall in hostility in almost a decade.”

Not since the raid that killed his mother. Which was half the problem. John was consumed by that grief, by the rage, and had nowhere to direct it, no place to spend that rage.

He thinks it might have been better if they had gone to war. It would have burnt out the fury or ended in blood—and the tribe wouldn’t have suffered for it.

It didn’t matter, not anymore—Mari had been dead now for a decade and the war he had been dreading for all that time was here.

“We don’t have to fight. We could cede the territory, retreat to the northern clans’ land. They would take us,” Dean says, even knowing his father would rather die than run.

John gives him a flat stare, and then, “When we fight the Romans—they will be the ones who retreat.”

He leaves in the morning, after the new moon. He spends the night on the edge of the forest, watching the wall. A long red strip of linen whips in the branches of the sapling and he wonders if Castiel sees it. If his fingers have clenched into a fist, the way he does when he’s emotional. There is one moment when something moves in the dark, and he thinks he can see Castiel.

Even knowing it’s a shadow, he smiles at it for a long time, until gray streaks the sky and he leaves his perch in the trees and turns his gaze north.

Dean travels easily and light. Baby moves quickly under him, with the quick sure step he’s come to expect from the mare, and he finds himself drifting more than he likes.

He doesn’t want to think about why this mission, this war, makes his stomach turn. He doesn’t want to think about the coming war at all—but it’s like scratching an itch. The harder he tries to think of something else, something other than the man he’s riding toward and the war brewing behind him, the faster his thoughts circle back to only that…

 

_ He was never meant to go past the Wall. It was a raiding party he should have never have been on, a party of half-drunk warriors preening under their own delusions. _

_ The Roman garrison decimated them, ripped through the twenty warriors so quickly and decisively that Dean had barely brought down his first man before he was caught. His shoulder and belly laid open by a sword, Dean was held down by two centurians and one grinned, wide and dirty. “He’ll make a fine addition to the arena.” _

_ He doesn’t talk about the four years he spent at the ludus, about the way they trained him or the men they made him kill. _

_ He never talks about what it took to get free, to find his way home, or why he came at the side of a Norseman, of all things. _

_ He kept it all tucked away. Sometimes, when he was very drunk, he would murmur snatches of the story to Sam, but he kept his mouth shut for the most part. Never told Sam he was on the raiding party to keep the tribesman from taking the new mystic to predict and guide the battle. _

_ He never wanted Sam to know that. _

He shivered out of the memories, and nudged his heels more firmly into Baby’s side. She wickered as she broke into a rough trot.

He had more reason than any to want the war his father was carefully crafting.

He just needed to forget sky-bright eyes and a wicked smile and remember everything the Romans stole from him.

The southern tribes didn’t often deal with the tribes to the far north. They were a rougher sort of people, savage. Sailing up and down the coast, they harry and raid before darting back into the frigid waters. Dean liked to think they left the northern tribes alone out of deference to their territory--lands that the southern tribes didn't need or want.

He knew the truth had more to do with the cold fear in the eyes of his father and the other clan chiefs when the Norsemen ventured into the wild woods where they lived.

If it ever came to a battle between the southern tribes and the brutal Norse, Dean was very sure of who would be slaughtered.

It is, he thinks, a very good thing that they are so content with their snow-whipped beaches and cold boats, and that nothing has drawn their gaze south.

He hopes that this temporary alliance won’t change that.

It takes him a week to reach the cold stretch of forest he knows belongs to the tribe Benny hails from. He slips from Baby’s back, his whistling low and musical as he walks through the woods. For the first time, he isn’t considering hiding his movements. Dean just moves with the gliding hunter’s stride he adopted the first time his father sent him out to trap rabbits on his own.

He prowls the wood for three hours, whistling and walking and waiting. Baby watches him curiously before she goes back to munching on grass and trailing behind him.

“C’mon, Benny,” he mutters, as night begins to fall.

He knows that Benny is aware of his presence in his territory, knows that if Benny isn’t here now, it will only be a matter of time before he arrives.

He mutters a low curse, sets up a small camp and waits.

Waiting isn't unusual. They go through this every time Dean journeys to the far north of their island, waiting patiently in the wet and cold woods while Benny does gods only know what.

But this time--

He can't help but watch the sky, the moon hanging heavy above him. His heart pounds as he wonders if he will return in time. And if he doesn't… will Cas wonder where he is? Why he hasn't signaled? Will he worry?

Has he forgotten Dean?

He can't decide if he wants Cas to miss him and worry, or if he wishes the Legate will forget him because that is the only way Dean will be able to let him go.

He huffs a sigh and shifts lower into his tree, hands shoved under his armpits to ward off the chill creeping over his fingertips, and firmly puts Cas out of his mind. He doesn't get to think about the Roman right now, not when his father has sent him north to gather allies and tribes for a war against Rome.

He wishes he could make John understand just how futile an idea this is. How powerful Rome is compared to them.

But if his father didn't listen years ago, when he stumbled home underweight and sick, Dean doesn't suppose he will ever listen, and he's long since stopped trying to talk.

He isn’t sure when he drifts off. He doesn’t mean to—it’s dangerous to sleep unprotected in hostile territory, and Benny’s fierce Norsemen have always been the very picture of hostile.

But he’s exhausted, worn down from the long days of traveling, tramping through the forest, and the constant edge of tension and nerves. He wakes to a sharp edge under his jaw and a low, amused whistle.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be alone in the woods.”

Dean flashes a smile that’s all teeth and menace. “Never know what kind of monster might stumble over me.”

There’s a low rumble of laughter and the blade pulls away. He steps into the light and Dean looks his friend over, his grin going bright and pleased.

Benny looks good. He’s put on a little muscle since the last time Dean saw him. There’s a sharp brightness to his eyes that Dean recognizes from the time they spent in the ludus but he’s loose, almost relaxed as he lets his axe rest against his leg. Benny smiles down at Dean, easy and content in a way that Dean has rarely seen from his friend.

He looks happy.

“You married that crazy woman, didn’t you?” Dean says, a wide smile on his face as Benny pulls him to his feet.

Benny gives a wordless shrug and a dirty leer that makes Dean laugh out loud.

“She’s good to me and her cooking isn’t bad,” Benny says, as if the woman hadn’t saved their lives, as if she hadn’t been responsible for them escaping from the ludus.

Dean knows damn well that the slave woman was more than good cooking. She was as wild and fierce as Benny was, as savage as them both. And she was fearless, sneaking them out of the ludus under the cover a riot that she had provoked. There were two horses that she’d stolen, waiting two miles from the training grounds, and she’d glared at Benny when he tried to send her back, pointing at the mare. “She’s mine,” she’d growled. “I will let you ride with me.”

And that was that. After four years in the ludus they were free, two men and a woman, with nothing to tie them together except the hell they had lived through together and a fierce will to survive.

Dean had watched their slow dance, the push and pull between Benny and Andrea. As the trio traveled home, fighting for every bloody mile, he watched them slowly fall for each other.

When Dean was close to his tribe’s territory—to Sam—for the first time in four years, he’d looked at them. Andrea had shifted on her mare and nodded briskly, “I will stay with Benny. Traveling through the clan’s land is dangerous.”

Neither man pointed out that she needed far more protection than Benny ever would.

Dean sometimes wondered, after, if it was even true.

The Norsemen didn’t like the Greek woman, with her dusky skin, eyes so deep they were almost black, her sharp tongue and soft body. They didn’t like the way that she fought with Benny, loudly shouting things that left them both shaking and furious.

The first time Dean traveled to the north, after he’d been home for almost a year, he’d been surprised by the reticence in them both, the way they danced around each other still.

“They won’t let me marry her, not if I want to control the clan after the Old Man’s death.”

Dean had nodded like he understood, even though he didn’t. But he hadn’t supposed he’d ever be in the position that Benny was in.

Now, he was pleased his friend had finally given into the inevitable and married the crazy girl. They deserved each other, understood each other in a way no one else ever could.

“What are you doing here, brother?” Benny drawls. “Not that we don’t love your pretty face, but—it’s a little far afield, even for you.”

Dean hears the hint of concern, of worry, that Benny has never been particularly good at hiding from him.

“Well,” Dean says. “I might need a favor.”

Benny’s eyebrows go up, a small display of surprise, and Dean lets his grin go wide and sharp. “I’m starting a war. And I do know how much you love fighting the Roman bastards. Thought I’d be a good friend and invite you to join us in the bloodletting.”

Benny grins then and it’s the same feral smirk that made him such a popular gladiator, the one that drew women to his bed and men to revere him.

“This is why you’re my favorite, Dean.”

The Norsemen aren’t like Dean’s tribe. They’re a louder people, prone to fighting that leaves most bloody. 

When they arrive at the camp, Benny drifts through their midst, called to, ignored, and sometimes heckled. He ignores them all with the quiet calm that first drew Dean to him in the ludus and on the arena sands. It’s the kind of removed disregard for others that made it possible for him to survive, that keeps his clan alive now, even as he ignores them.

Andrea frowns a little as he approaches, Dean trailing at his heels. Her eyes are tight as Dean grins wide at her and gives her a rough hug. “Missed you, crazy.”

“Dean,” she pronounces his name in disgust, with all the warmth and affection of a woman who knows him too well to tolerate him.

“You should not have gone,” Andrea says urgently to Benny. “The Old Man has been listening to Olaf again.”

Benny shrugs laconically. “He’ll do as he wishes, ‘Drea.”

“You will be displaced,” she snarls, and Dean whips around to look at his friend.

“And if I am, we will find another clan—I am a good warrior. We would not be turned away,” Benny says.

She makes a rude noise and rips out of Benny’s arms, stalking away muttering under her breath.

“She’s still as charming as ever. I’m glad—I heard marriage can change a person. Glad to know our Andrea is still herself.”

Benny snorts a laugh at that and shoots Dean a grin. “I’ve missed you, brother.”

Dean nods and smiles at the other man, tucking his questions aside for the moment, as he follows Benny to his long house. Andrea scowls darkly at them but keeps her mouth shut as she stirs something murky and delicious smelling. He wants to ask what happened and why they are considering leaving the clan and what the hell is Olaf saying, that the Old Man would listen?

But he doesn’t, he merely goes about unpacking his bags and tucking away his belongings as Benny crosses to Andrea, wrapping an arm around her waist and murmuring too low for Dean to hear, pressing a kiss to her throat as she growls curses.

It’s only when her glare eases a little that Benny releases her and Dean feels like he can breathe.

He has no idea what is happening among the Norsemen, but he has a feeling he’ll be finding out soon enough.

The Norsemen don’t like Dean. They don’t like his dark tattoos and the predatory way he glides through the camp, don’t like the way he fights at Benny’s side, sometimes, fighting smooth and dirty, an extension of Benny, so flawless and familiar they cut through five enemies before anyone even realizes they’re a threat, and Benny is whistling while Dean laughs.

The Norsemen don’t like Dean, and he doesn’t mind much because they don’t like him but they respect him, respect his ability and his prowess and that’s enough for him, for now.

The problem is not the Norsemen. It’s Benny. Benny who has always stood as the bridge between Dean and his clan, or the wall that protected him. Dean has walked, over the years, into the clan’s territory, armed and alone and easy enough to kill. Dean has always walked under the protection of Benny, the Old Man’s favorite son and heir to the clan,  one of their fiercest warriors.

But something has changed since the last time Dean was here, because now—

Now Benny is watched. 

Dean pays attention, watches the way the clan is observing him, watches the way they talk, low and secret, when he has passed. He sees the tension and the sharp calculating stares that feel like another gladiator, sizing them up, a predator assessing a threat.

He waits until that evening, when Andrea is sleeping and they are both pleasantly drunk before he asks. “What the hell happened, Benny?”

His friend sighs, “I went on a raid last year. It was longer than we thought it’d be and the Old Man was sick. Andrea stayed closed to him, kept him breathing through the worst of it and he took to her. He’s always been too partial to her—and he wanted to make her a wife. Andrea put him off, and then I was home and we married quick and secret. The Old Man, he didn’t like that. Was furious. He sent me out again and I lost one of the longships, which didn’t do anything to soothe his temper. Olaf stayed behind, whispering in his ear, and it’s grown, snowballed into this problem that I didn’t really realize was a problem until it was too big and complicated for me to undo.”

“He’s your father,” Dean protests, sharp and furious and Benny gives him an amused smile.

“Because yours is so much better?”

If Benny’s distanced, cold killing had first caught his attention, it was his deep love for a father who broke him that kept Dean close. It was, after all, a relationship that Dean understood, better than he wanted.

“How do we fix this?” Dean asked, instead of arguing with the assessment of his relationship with John.

Benny shrugs and drains his mead. “I don’t know that we can. The Old Man doesn’t want this repaired. He is happy with things broken, with Olaf agreeing to every mad thing he says. The clan is starving—we’ve got no food and winter is on its way and Olaf tells him everything is good. That we’re fine. That the people are healthy.” Benny shrugs. “I can’t lie to the man.”

“You don’t care about them. Not enough to risk your life,” Dean says, simply.

“Doesn’t mean I’ll lie,” Benny replies, even and unbothered.

“Will the clan follow him?” 

Benny shrugs. “The clan will follow the strong. We’ve raided and fought a few skirmishes with the neighboring clans, but the men are restless. They need to fight. It’s who we are.”

Dean nods, and grins. “So what if we give them something worth fighting for?”

Benny hums and nods, and Dean leans back, a small smile, smug and teasing on his face.

“I’m starting a war, brother. We could use your kind of crazy.”

Benny is silent, staring into the fire broodily before he laughs, a little, and shrugs as he pushes to his feet. “Might as well. Andrea has been complaining of the cold—it’ll do her good to spend some time in your southern airs.”

“It’s cold, Benny. You know it’s cold.”

Benny grins, and tugs Dean after him. “We’ll show you cold—I’ll fight your war for you, but first, you’ll come raiding with me.”

Dean grins because he has misses the salty spray of water in his face and Benny’s eyes calm and placid as they watch the churning sea.

He tries not to think of the Legate waiting for him at the Wall.

 

** II. The Wall. _Now_ **

 

Dean is staring at him, still, his eyes wide and cautiously hopeful, and he looks—he looks—

“Cassie,” Gabriel snaps, and Castiel jerks, ripping his gaze away from the man he can’t actually believe is real, to stare helplessly at his brother.

“What do you need?” Gabriel asks, like they are not surrounded by the enemy, like there isn’t a emissary from Rome waiting for Castiel to misstep.

Like what Castiel wants _matters_.

“A moment,” Cas says, because he can’t walk away, not now. “Just—I need five minutes alone with him.”

Gabe nods, and Inias moves before Castiel is even finished speaking, unlocking Dean’s chains and tugging him to his feet.

Sam yelps a protest and Cas spins, “Sam, please!”

“I’m fine, Sam. Just—let me go. I’ll be right back. Cas won’t hurt me.” Dean watches him while he speaks, soothing his brother, a tiny smirk that is so familiar it’s painful on his face. “Will you, Blue?”

Cas makes a noise, all high pitched and pained, and Balthazar jerks on his arm, pulling him from the prison and tugging him down the hallway to an almost empty store room. He gives Castiel a worried frown, “Try not to get yourself killed, Cas. I’m still cleaning up the damage from the last brother who did that.”

Then he’s gone and Dean is standing in the semi-dark room, and Cas stares. Allows himself that. Because. “Dammit, Dean. _Seven_ months. What happened to you?” he hisses, because it’s been a long seven months since he kissed Dean under the stars and wondered when they would see each other again. _If_ they would see each other. And most of those months he spent afraid, convinced Dean was dead. Seeing him here, thin and drawn, tired shadows under his eyes, his beard scruffy and untended--his heart pounds and he clenches his hands to stop the shaking, to stop himself from reaching for Dean.

“I was in the North. Got a friend up there, a Norseman. Needed to do a bit of business with him and it took longer than we originally thought. Cas, you gotta know I’d never just disappear on you. Not without letting you know. I thought I’d be home, back in our territory, before the full moon.”

Cas holds himself very still, a few feet separating them that feels like a chasm. “I thought you were dead, Dean. I thought—I thought you were _dead_.”

His voice cracks, on the last word and Dean makes a low noise, reassuring somehow, stepping forward and jerking Cas into his arms. Dean wraps him in a hug so tight and fierce it’s almost bruising, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough. Cas sobs a little and burrows closer, his hand clenching in Dean’s bloody furs and the long braids of his hair. Dean groans as Cas’s nose presses against the sweaty skin of his neck, pushing under the fur until he is pressing his lips to hot skin.

“You were dead,” Cas whispers. “You were dead and I didn’t know, I couldn’t do anything.”

Dean makes a soft shushing noise, something that breaks Cas’s heart. He tilts his head up, not really sure what he’s looking for until Dean hums a little, leans in and kisses Cas.

He groans and the world shifts. Every wrong thing that’s been weighing on him for months drops away under the sweet pressure of full lips. The quick, wicked glide of Dean’s tongue licks over his lips, tracing them even as Cas gasps into his mouth, and his hands come up to clench in Dean’s hair. That earns him a laugh and a sharp nip on his bottom lip before Dean pulls away, just a little. “Five minutes, Cas, isn’t nearly enough time for that.”

“We won’t be disturbed,” Cas argues, petulant, his teeth sharp against Dean’s lip. Dean grins a little, chuckles soft as his arms tighten around Castiel’s shoulders.

“Not here. Not like this. Not when I’m still covered in blood and my brother is a room away in chains.”

“Your brother is always a room away,” Cas grumbles but he steps back. His eyes sweep over Dean, something catching in his throat as he looks at the other man.

“You’re alive,” Cas breathes and Dean makes a face, apologetic. And then Cas slams him into the wall, snarling. “You’re _alive_ , you _bastard.”_

“I’m sorry—I didn’t think John would send me away, or I would never have agreed to the signal.” Dean protests, not fighting the heavy press of Cas against him, not fighting the fury in his gaze. “I’m sorry, Cas.” He leans forward, catching Cas’s lips in a chaste kiss and Cas makes a broken noise, his grip going desperate instead of angry.

Cas shakes his head, a little dazed. “It doesn’t matter. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

Dean catches his wrist in a tight grip as he demands, “Cas, what the hell is even happening here?”

Castiel sighs. “The tribes started raiding on our side of the wall. We’ve lost over fifty soldiers.”

“So you sent your men North?”

“No. The emissary from Rome ordered that,” Cas snaps. “Because your tribes have the worst timing ever. I was asked to deliver a war and then you idiots gave me every reason to follow through on that order and no reason to ignore it.”

“Rome wants a war?” Dean asks, his voice cold and cautious as he falls back a step.

“My brother wants the political capital a war can give him,” Cas says, absently. “He doesn’t seem to care that it’s suicide. Politicians rarely do, though. I’m trying to limit the aggression from my men, but Dean—”

“You have to protect yourself if we’re on the offense,” Dean says, nodding. “I wouldn’t expect you to just look the other way, Cas. My father—the clan chiefs—they want a bloody conflict. They want to drive you from the Wall.”

“They have to know they’ll fail.” Cas says, flatly and Dean gives a helpless shrug.

“I don’t think they care.”

Castiel stares at him, this man he has wanted and loved and grieved, and it suddenly hits him:   even with Dean standing close enough to touch, he is miles away, forever out of reach.There will always be a Wall separating them and dividing them. 

Dean nods at him, and he sees the same knowledge reflected in green eyes. “Kiss me, Blue. Then go do your job, and I’ll wait in my cell.”

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Cas says, fiercely.

“You’ll do what you have to, and you’ll get my brother out of here,” Dean says. “Promise me, Castiel.”

He makes a broken little noise and Dean reaches for him, drawing him into a hug. Cas tucks his head into the curl of Dean’s shoulder and tries not to think for a few minutes. Dean murmurs nonsense into his hair and whispers, “Promise me, Castiel.”

Without really thinking, only knowing that there isn’t an alternative, he whispers, “I promise, Dean.”

~.~

Gabriel watches. He doesn’t approach his brother, sits quiet with his men ranged around him. Balthazar is at his side, and he is very sure that Inias is somewhere in the mess hall, hiding in the shadows, gaze unfaltering, trained on Castiel.

Inias is a disturbing individual, but if he’s the one keeping Cas safe, Gabe can breathe a little.

Cas’s hands are shaking and he looks like he’s about two minutes from breaking down completely, but he still manages to answer Rafael’s questions, pick at his dinner, and nod approval to orders from the centurions as they approach him.

He manages it so easily that Gabriel wonders if anyone besides Zar and Inias notice the hesitation, the disquiet in his gaze.

Balthazar nudges him and Gabe lets his gaze drop to his plate, and for the first time he thinks about it:if it had been Zar who went missing, without word or warning, if every passing day reinforced the belief that he was dead, every day a new death.

How would he have handled that?

Would he have? Could he continue to do what he always had done, smile and act like the world was fine, when the man he loved was dead or missing?

Cas had stumbled in the past month—no one knew that more than Gabriel.

But he had stayed strong enough that even Rafael, who knew them too well, had not noticed the distraction in his eyes or the grief that shadowed his every move.

Gabriel laughs, softly and Zar leans into him, just a little. “What?”

“My brother is a strong little shit,” Gabe says, flashing a smile at his lover.

“I knew that,” Zar says easily and arches an eyebrow.

“He thought Dean was dead,” Gabriel says. “And he still kept us alive and the wall secure. He did more, grieving, than I could do on a good day.” He shakes his head and the words push against his teeth, begging to be spoken.

“I couldn’t do it, Zar. I couldn’t survive losing you, much less continue like nothing had even happened. I couldn’t. I’d fall apart.”

Zar’s expression goes soft and fond. “Idiot. Of course you couldn’t. But you won’t ever have to, Gabriel. I’m not leaving you.”

Gabriel doesn’t answer his lover, just smiles into his food, settled in a way he wasn’t, and watches his brother.

~.~

 

He stayed away. Clung to the shadows and empty passageways, and gave Castiel space.

He didn’t know what to do with this new arrival.

He knows where he’s always fit into the dynamics of the Angelus family, and the various souls they collected. He’s always accepted his place as Castiel’s right hand, a friend and confidant, and known that he could never be more than that. Despite his own unspoken wishes, he’s never aspired to be more than the one who guarded Castiel’s back.

But the wild warrior with bright eyes and a wicked smile—Inias couldn’t keep Castiel safe from him. Castiel didn’t even want to be kept safe.

Love was a cliff Cas wanted to throw himself from, and Dean was the sharp rocks he would break upon. Inias had no idea what to do with that.

~.~

“What do we do with them?” Gabriel asks, leaning against the wall, his boots kicked up on Castiel’s bed. His smile is wide and obnoxious and Castiel shoves his feet off the bed with a muttered curse.

“What can we do?” Zar shoots back.

“Nothing,” Inias says quietly.

Cas turns to his friend, and Inias shrugs. “We keep them where they are and we give Rafael the war he wants to distract him. Until his gaze is turned somewhere else, we can’t do anything with them because it’ll draw his attention.”

Castiel shivers. The idea of Rafael turning his attention onto the brothers—onto Dean—made his stomach turn in fear.

“You’re right,” he mutters. “I just don’t _like_ that you’re right.”

Inias is silent, waiting patiently and Castiel finally nods. “We leave them. Zar, I want you to take personal control of the prisoners—take it from whatever captain we have doing it now. I want them under your control. Keep Rafael’s men away from them. Gabriel—we’ll take two cohorts north of the wall in three days. Half of them mounted auxiliary. I want a clean sweep, clear out the forest as much as we can. We aren’t trying to protect Dean’s people anymore—not if his father started this. I’m done losing men to them. End it.”

“And if it gets bloody?” Gabe asks, quietly.

Castiel gives him a flat-eyed stare. “Then it gets bloody and they’ll learn why you don’t trifle with the Empire.”

Gabriel is quiet, waiting until Inias and Zar amble out of the room before he gives all of his attention to his youngest brother.

“So he wasn’t dead.”

“Obviously,” Castiel says, dryly.

“He lied to you,” Gabe says, simple.

“No. Circumstances kept him away. There was never any intention to hurt me.”

“You believe him,” Gabe says, a statement more than a question and Castiel finally blinks, turning his attention to his brother.

“You don’t?”

“I have no reason to believe him, Cassie. I don’t know him. I’m not in love with him.”

Cas flushes but he doesn’t deny it and that more than anything confirms what Gabriel already knows.

“He saved my life, Gabriel. He and Sam—I would have died, if they hadn’t taken a chance on me.”

“And you thought the right thanks was falling in love with one of them?”

Cas flushes. “That wasn’t the plan. It just…”

“Happened.” Gabe finishes and Cas nods, a little shamefaced.

“How does this end, little brother? What do you want, when this is over?”

Cas stares, wide eyed and startled and Gabe nods, “I think you need to figure that out quickly, Castiel.”

He stands silently and hesitates, then. “I will support you. Whatever you chose, I will support you. But you need to decide what you want. Do you want to be Michael’s brother? Or do you want Dean? Because you can’t have both, Castiel. You cannot honor the Empire and keep him.” 

He gives Cas a hard, searching stare and Cas nods, wordless, before Gabe leaves the room.

 

** III. The Wall **

 

Dean straightened as the door swung open, scooting in front of Sam as much as he could. His brother was exhausted, and whatever was coming, he’d rather face it than make Sam confront another threat.

The man who steps in looks familiar and distinguished and Dean’s eyes narrow. He recognizes him as the man—one of three—who accompanied Castiel before. His hair is short and bright, with narrow, sharp eyes and a smile that’s the sharp side of friendly.

“Do any of you speak Latin?” Dean shifts a little and nods. The blonde looks around, waiting, and then glances at him. “Any others?”

Benny doesn’t stir and Dean smiles tightly. “No. I’m the only one.”

“And how did you learn our fair tongue in your wild wood?”

Dean flashes a smile, all teeth. “I picked it up when I was playing in your arenas.”

The soldier freezes and then barks a laugh and shakes his head. “You are full of surprises.”

Dean doesn’t respond to that and the smile drops a little.

“You’ll be fed twice a day. Exercise once a week—two if I can manage it, but don’t expect that. We’ll put you to work in the fort, as we need. If you attempt to run, you’ll be killed. There is a latrine at the back of the cell. Does anyone need medical attention?”

Dean twists, looking over the bloody and broken lot of them. He turns back to the centurion with a smile. “We’ll manage.”

“Yes, I suppose you will. Still, my legate would be displeased if you were to die. I’ll have medical supplies sent down for your use.”

He pauses, and then, “My name is Balthazar. I will be safeguarding you for the Legate until you are sent to Rome. If you need anything,” and his eyes go sharp and knowing, “ask for me. My men will see that I am found.”

Dean nods once and the centurion gives something that almost resembles a smile before he leaves and Dean is left with his brother watching him and Benny’s curious gaze.

“You were in an arena?” Sam demands, his voice shaking and hurt like he can’t believe Dean kept something that important from him. Dean sighs and shrugs. “It was a long time ago, Sam. Don’t worry about it.”

“That centurion is a little friendly to prisoners. Don’t remember that from our days in Gaul,” Benny says, casually. Dean’s eyes cut to him, and he sees the sharp stare, the demand he isn’t voicing and he sighs.

“Seems like you might have left out some important details of your little war, brother.”

Sam snorts a little at that, and leans back into the wall. He’s pissed, but Dean can deal with that later. Right now, he keeps his gaze trained on Benny.

“We don’t choose who we care about, Ben. If we did, you wouldn’t be married to the crazy woman or fighting with the Old Man.”

Benny’s eyes narrow. “You love him that much?”

Dean hesitates. “Do you remember when I said I had to come back because something was waiting for me, that we had to move fast because I couldn’t leave it waiting?”

Benny’s eyes narrow. “I thought you meant the war.”

“That’s what I wanted you to think,” Dean says, easily.

There’s a beat of silence and then, dry and amused. “You fell in love with a Roman. And not just any Roman, a legate. Do you like making life difficult for yourself?”

“You married Andrea, so maybe it’s something we picked up in the ludus,” Dean drawls and Benny laughs, loud and shaking and Dean relaxes a little. Because whatever else happens, his best friend has forgiven this.

Everything else can be managed, after he calms Sam down.

He stretches his legs out in front of him and tries not to think about Cas, about how he’d pressed against him, and the broken sort of hope in his eyes as he stared at Dean like he was everything he’d ever wanted and couldn’t bear to hope for.

Benny and the other prisoners are sleeping, or as close to it as anyone is going to get in this hellhole when Sam shifts next to him. It’s been hours since Cas was here, hours since the blonde centurion retreated and left behind a confused and angry brother and more questions than Dean wants to answer right now.

He’s a little surprised that Sammy manages to keep his mouth shut, the questions bottled up, for as long as he does.  So when he shifts, leaning a little closer to Dean, it’s not surprising. He gives a little sigh and says simply, “Ask.”

“The arenas, Dean? What the hell—why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell _me_?”

“Because I didn’t want you to know. I’m not proud of what I did in the arena, but I did the most important thing—I survived. I got out and I’m home, and I didn’t want that hanging over me every time I spoke to you or to John. It was over. It still is.”

“Except there’s Benny,” Sam says, his voice just a little sharp.

Dean shrugs. “Benny is different. He helped me—we survived because of each other. I don’t expect you or any of the tribe to like him, but I expect you to respect that he’s a friend, and I trust him with my life.”

Dean shifts, finds Sam’s eyes. “More than that, I trust him with your life.”

Sam inhales sharply because he knows. KNOWS that Dean doesn’t do that, doesn’t trust people with his safety. He never has. He lost Mari too young and violently to ever truly trust anyone with someone he cares about.

“It was years ago, Sam. Let it go. Just. Let it go.”

The words are soft, almost a plea, and Sam nods. Leans into the wall, his shoulder pressed against Dean’s and says simply, “Ok, Dean.”

The prison isn’t bad, as prisons go. The blonde—he says his name is Balthazar—keeps his word. They’re fed and given limited exercise under heavy guard. After a week, he swings into the prison and eyes them sharply. “I need two of you in the stables.”

He watches Dean and when Dean points at two of the healthier prisoners, grunts and has them unchained and removed from the prison.

Balthazar looks at him, curiously. “Why not volunteer yourself?”

Dean shrugs. “I’m of better use here, where I can translate and help my people help you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Balthazar is quiet for a long moment, and then mutters a curse as he stalks out of the prison. Dean is left staring at a closed door, wondering what the hell he said. But it isn’t bad, even if he doesn’t exactly understand what Balthazar is trying to achieve, with his constant storming into the little prison.

But it is little, and it’s dirty. With wounded sitting in so much filth, it’s not surprising when the first of them gets sick.

It’s not surprising or even worrying until the third.

“What do they need?” Dean demands and Sam shakes his head.A furious sort of helplessness has settled over him and Dean hates that look on his brother’s face. “I don’t know. I don’t think—feel how hot it is, here, near the wound? The wound has turned. That’s not something I can fix here. They need clean air and bedding, and salve I can’t make here.”

“If they don’t get it?” Dean asks, quiet and knowing.

“Then they’ll die,” Sam says, soft and final.

~.~

Dean learned a long time ago that the best way to hunt is to watch. Observe the people and place in which he find himself until he knows what he is facing, until what he’s facing has learned to overlook him, their gaze dulled by time and habit, seeing him as a part of the world, stationary and calm, instead of as a threat.

It’s what he did in the ludus, until the only one who expected anything of him was Benny. He fought on the sands, fought hard and viciously. But when he was in the cages, in training, he was lazy, laconic, deferential.

Benny told him, just once, that it was weak. It wasn’t. It was survival. Dean has always known that surviving is hard, has always been willing to do whatever hard thing was required of him to stay alive.

Alive is the only way to protect Sam and that has been the driving force of his life since his mother died.

This is no different. It takes the first two warriors dying for Dean to understand that Castiel doesn’t change anything. He’s here, and Dean might care about the guy—far more than he has any right to, far more than is healthy—but it doesn’t change anything. As long as they are here, Sam is in danger, and Dean will move heaven and raise hell to ensure his brother is safe.

For the first month, they sit in the dirty prison and Dean watches the guards that rotate in and out, watches the way Balthazar watches them. Castiel occasionally drifts into the prison, his gaze sad and tired and moving over Dean too rapidly to do anything but take in the glancing facts. That Dean is dirty, tired, and thin. That Sam leans against him more and more, mumbling and shivering behind his braids, huddled in Dean’s still-bloodstained furs.

He never pauses, just nods his approval or acknowledgement to Balthazar before he sweeps back out, Gabriel at his heels.

 

~.~

 

It’s the second month of their imprisonment, when they have a new influx of bloody warriors dumped into the cell, that Balthazar calls sharply to Dean. He finds himself, without much consultation or fuss, standing a few feet from Castiel and a tall, dark man with sharp eyes and an amused set to his lips.

Across from them, Jessica is standing calm and serene in her white robes, her hair a long complicated braid down the center of her back. Her face is smooth and sparsely tattooed. She looks sweet, almost angelic, and her gaze is respectfully lowered, although blue eyes do flick up to find him when he’s ushered into the room. He sees the tension in her hands, clenched into fists, for just a moment before she releases her breath and says, “I am here to negotiate a cessation of attacks.”

Dean stares at her, his eyes wide and startled, before the dark man snaps impatiently at him, “What does she want?”

“Um. A truce. For a time.”

“We would barter our Roman prisoners for the warriors you keep.” Jessica says, and Dean almost trips over himself relaying that.  

“Why?” the dark man demands. “Why should we give the tribes anything they ask for?”

“Because you are dying.” Jessica says bluntly. “And you will not survive winter.”

Dean stares at her, not sure what that means, what that could possibly mean, when Castiel asks, “Then why bother? Why not let the cold and your warriors end us?”

Silence, then Rafael laughs, soft and dark. “You are no more convinced you can win this war than we are.”

Dean starts to translate, and Castiel shakes his head sharply. He snarls a little, but goes quiet and waits.

Castiel is still, even as Rafael paces and snarls behind him. Gabriel leans against the wall, his gaze flicking between Rafael and the wild woman, a small smirk on his lips.

“We will meet with your chiefs and discuss a truce,” Castiel says eventually, and Dean hesitates, almost argues.

Rafael is watching them, watching _him_ , and he bites back his argument, the need to tell Castiel this is going to go to hell, that there is no way to walk into a summit with the warchiefs and come out with everyone still breathing.

He doesn’t say that. He dutifully translates Castiel’s words and Jessica nods. “I will bring their terms,” she says simply.

“Gabriel, escort the emissary to the wall, and see her safely to her territory.” Castiel says, and Jessica catches his gaze, briefly, so briefly, as she turns away.

Rafael remains in the room, and Dean can see the panic in Castiel’s eyes before he shuts it down.

“Return to your cell, prisoner,” Cas says, quietly.

“How did you come to know Latin?” Rafael asks, all silky menace.

“A stray the tribe took in when I was young,” Dean replies, an easy lie. Rafael smiles and turns away, slipping from the room.

It’s the first time in almost two months that he’s been alone with Castiel.

He wants to reach out and touch him. Wants to warn him about the trap the chiefs will set. Wants to pull him close and kiss him until the tension in his shoulders eases and he leans into Dean with that small confused smile Dean loves.

Instead, he stays where he is and doesn’t speak. Castiel stares at him for a long moment before calling to a soldier, then leaves the room as his guard walks in, and Dean is taken back to his prison, back to Sam.

 

** IV. The Wall **

 

He wants, desperately, to go to the prison cell. To go to Dean and crawl into his arms and never leave.

Two months he’s been close, in the same fort, and he’s seen him only in passing. There has been no conversation, no eye contact, no closeness—there’s been only Zar’s reports and seeing him in passing when inspecting the prisons.

He knows that it’s for the best, that he cannot be near Dean, not without his control breaking, and that with Rafael so close he can’t afford it.

Dean can’t.

He’s shaking as he leaves the hall, the wild woman’s voice ringing in his ear and Dean’s green eyes, wide and worried, boring into him.

It takes another three days before he breaks.

He spends it throwing himself into the talks of peace, arranging for his men to escort him to the meeting of the chiefs. He avoids Rafael and his curious, too-sharp stare, and when he cannot take the noise in his own mind, when he feels like all of the nerves and energy will vibrate out of him, he saddles Morningstar.

Inias rides with him and for a time, as Morn gallops, his long legs eating up the distance, chasing an ever elusive horizon, Cas forgets everything.

It feels right, being here. In a way that being in Rome never did, _this_ feels right.

Riding under the wide open sky, with nothing but the world around him and the sound of another horse at his side.

He grins, throws a look to his right and—

Falters. His smile goes brittle and he bites down on his own rage as he sees Inias, riding easy and familiar on his gray mare. He yanks on Morning’s reins and the stallion snorts, furious, under him. Inias turns his mare, cutting him off. “You can’t go to him, Cas. You know you can’t.”

Cas smiles, painfully. “I can’t not.”

Inias nods. “I know. I know you need him. So let me help you.”

Cas stares for a long moment, and Inias gives him a smile. It’s rare and sweet and it hurts, breaks something in Cas he thought he had forgotten:  the part of him that wanted to love Inias.

He nods and Inias grins. “Go to the guard tower two leagues down. It’s empty right now—I’ll be there with Dean as soon as I can.”

He spins his mare without waiting for a response, and Cas swallows down his questions and does as he’s told.

 

~.~

 

“Why exactly am I going with you in the middle of the night?” Dean asks, but his grumbling is more out of habit and necessity than because he actually distrusts Inais. He wasn’t expecting the Roman to appear in his prison cell an hour before sunset, looking as feral and grim as he always has, grabbing Dean and almost dragging him from the cell. Benny had shouted a wordless protest but Sam had calmed him down, which soothed the vague concern Dean had. If Sam was reassuring Benny, it’s because he had Seen something, and while Dean might not understand them, he trusts Sam’s visions.

He wonders, as Inias settles in front of him on the gray mare, why Cas has suddenly decided that now is when he should see Dean, but he mostly doesn’t care. He just wants to _see_ Cas when he isn’t being watched by someone else, when he isn’t wondering how his words will be used against him, when he isn’t worried about his brother dying a room away.

He hates himself, a little, for wanting this so much, but as the watch tower rises up in front of them and Inias slows the horse, he can feel his blood pounding in his chest.

“He’s waiting for you,” Inias says, stopping the mare and Dean slides down.

“No warnings or threats?” he asks. 

Inias shrugs and stares at Dean, a little harder than Dean likes. “No need for them,” he says, then trots his mare away.

“Strange bastard,” Dean mutters, and pushes into the watchtower.

The room is small and dark, a place built for utility and not comfort. Cas is leaning against the wall, his face lit by the one candle he’s burning, and for a moment they just stare at each other.

It’s strange. Dean sees him in the fort often enough that this shouldn’t feel like a revelation. But it is.

Maybe because the man Dean sees in the fort—the Castiel who commands a legion—is different from _his_ Cas, who smiles at him, shy and nervous now,  anxiously rubbing his hands against his cloak.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, finally.

Dean sighs, a smile turning up his lips, as he steps into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “Hey, Cas.”

~.~

It’s strange.

Because it’s not strange at all.

Dean slips into the room and settles next to him on the floor, leaning against the wall. There is, as there has always been, a tiny sliver of space between them.

For a long time, they’re silent, sitting close in the gathering dark, the candle flickering against their skin. It’s the first time he’s hasn’t felt like screaming, the first time since he left Dean to return to the wall that he hasn’t felt out of place.

“Why do you matter to me so much?” he whispers, so softly that it’s barely more than a gust on the wind.

Dean huffs a laugh. “Is that really what you want to talk about, Cas?”

“Yes. But—I suppose we should talk about Jessica.”

“You can trust her words, as she is told them. You can’t trust the ones behind them—the chiefs will drag you in and rip you to pieces. That’s what they do. You walk in, there will be a bloodbath.”

“If we don’t end this, there will be a bloodbath. It has to end, Dean.”

“I know. But this isn’t the way.”

Cas twists to look at him. “What does Sam say?” he asks and Dean shudders.

“He—the visions are getting worse. Bloodier. He says we can change it—that we have to walk together.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Cas says, his voice low and broken. “My brother is demanding a war, a victory to sate the mob, and Rafael is here to ensure I deliver it. If I don’t lead the legion beyond the Wall, he will. It’s why we need this peace so badly.”

“It won’t hold. It’s not a real peace, Cas. It’s a dream built of smoke and illusions. The chiefs—they’ll never abide by it. My father will never abide by it.”

“Then we die. All of us. Your people and mine. And everything that Sam has seen will come to pass.”

It’s said blankly, his voice empty and flat, and there is only a tiny hitch at the end that tells Dean just how devastated Cas is.

If Cas didn’t sound so fucking _sad_ , maybe he wouldn’t have done it. But the flame is lighting those familiar blue eyes, so close that Dean can pretend for a moment that he is in Sam’s hut, staring at Cas across the pallet. He moves without really thinking about it, brushes his fingers gently over Castiel’s. It’s a barely there touch, but he feels it so damn deep that his breath catches in his throat, and he feels the shiver that shakes over Castiel. He allows his fingers to brush over Cas’s again, and then he’s pulling away, fingers retreating.

Pretending. That the space between them is a real thing. That Cas does not want to touch him. That he isn’t aching to reach for Cas.

“You’ll figure it out, Blue,” he whispers and Cas makes a disbelieving noise. “Don’t go to the summit. Figure it out.”

“I feel helpless,” Cas says. “I don’t know how to protect my men without hurting you.”

Dean pauses and then, quietly, “Does that matter? Hurting me?”

Cas laughs, a low noise that’s not as bitter as Dean expects. It’s almost—light.

“Some days, Dean, I think it’s the only thing that matters. Do you have any idea how bad that is?”

Dean flushes. “Why?”

Cas frowns at him, a little. “Why what?”

“Why do I matter?”

Cas shakes his head, his eyes wide and for the first time since Dean met him, since the time Dean threatened to kill him and Sam shouted to make him stand down—for the first time, Cas looks afraid. “How could you possibly not matter to me? How could you think you don’t?”

He sounds so distressed, so confused about how Dean could doubt that. It makes Dean smile, a pleased flush working it’s way up his cheeks, and he leans into Castiel, turns his head into the curve of his neck, hiding there. “I know, Cas. I know.”

“Dean,” Cas whispers, his voice an _ache_. “When you were gone—I wanted to leave. I wanted to abandon my men, my _brothers_ , and cross the wall. Find Sam and demand answers, find _you_. I knew you were dead and I didn’t care because if you were dead, there was nothing worth caring about. And now, you’re _here_ , you’re alive, and I still can’t have what I want.”

Dean is still leaning into him, and when he licks his lips, nervous now, he can taste the sweat on Castiel’s skin, the heat of him.

“What do you want?” Dean murmurs.

Cas goes still, and Dean smiles into his throat, pressing harder, kissing him now as Cas makes this delicious whining noise in his throat.

“Cas? Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to be safe,” Cas grits out. “I want my men to be safe and the killing to stop and Rafael to go back to Rome and for my fucking brother to leave me alone. I want—” he chokes off his words and Dean shifts. Pulls away a little. Stares at him.

“I want Sam to see good things in his vision and I want you to be happy.”

“Why?”

Cas shakes his head, desperately, looking away, and Dean catches a hand in his hair, his too long, unruly hair that is softer than he ever thought possible. “Why do you want me to be happy, Blue?” he whispers and Cas makes this noise, a broken sob.

“Because _you_ matter. Because I love you.”

Dean grins at that, and drags him in by his hair, kissing him.

For as much as he’s wanted this, as much as he’s dreamed of kissing Cas since they last stole time together, for all that he has wanted this, has sat alone in the dark forest and remembered the taste of Cas, the feel of him as he brought himself off, for all the _urgency_ that he feels—the kiss is gentle. It’s a soft brush of lips that is over almost before it begins, glancing off and retreating before they come back together. Again. A third time.

On the fourth, Cas groans, a needy noise that sounds like Dean’s name and Dean shifts, comes up on his knees and swings around until he’s straddling Cas.

And then Dean kisses him, hard and deep and wet, a dirty kiss that says everything he hasn’t, licking and biting at Cas’s mouth with the desperation of _months_ apart. 

Cas groans, his hands coming up to clutch at Dean's hips, tugging them down against him as Dean's fingers sink into his hair and his tongue sinks into Cas's mouth and his body sinks against Cas.

They've kissed before. And Dean is sure that they'll kiss again, that Cas will make sure they kiss again.

But nothing they've done is like this, desperate and sweet and perfect. Nothing compares to the way Cas nips at his lip and sucks at his tongue, drawing it into his mouth as he rolls his hips, arching into Dean.

Nothing compares to the hard pressure of Cas’s fingers on his hips, hard enough that he'll bruise and it's still not enough.

Dean pulls away, gasping for breath and Cas makes a grumpy, displeased noise as he presses biting kisses to his jaw, licking down his throat, until he gets to the curve of Dean's shoulder and bites down, hard enough that it makes Dean's hips jerk against him.

It's not enough. The hot press of Castiel's lips, the warmth of his hands pulling Dean close, even the words he whispers against Dean's skin. It's not enough.

"Cas," he whines as Cas sucks a bruise into his neck.

"Yes, Dean?"

"Want you," he mumbles, dragging Cas's head up by the hair. Blue eyes flash warning at him before they're kissing and it's good, it's so damn good he moans, grinding down against Cas's hard cock. "Want you to fuck me," he whispers, against Cas's lips.

It makes Castiel pull back a little, his eyes wide and almost scared. "Dean, no—not like this."

"Then when? When are we ever going to have time that's for us, Cas, when it's safe and we're together? You really want to throw away the few times we can steal together?"

Dean stares at him and then slides back a little, a new thought occurring to him. "Or do you not want me?"

"Dean," Cas grits out, "don't be an idiot. Of course I want you. I want you enough that I risked this, you—I don't _expect_ this, not right now."

Dean snorts a laugh and slides back, rocking slow and dirty in Castiel's lap. "Of course not. But are you gonna turn me down because you don't expect it?"

Cas snarls a little, yanking hard at Dean as his hips fuck up, grinding and desperate.

"Easy there, Cas," Dean teases, kissing him quick and light. "Wanna help me outta my clothes before you try to fuck me?"

Cas nods eagerly and Dean feels a surge of affection so strong his heart aches. He can't help leaning forward, kissing lips pink and wet from his kisses, sucking a little on the lower one, dragging his teeth over it gently as he pulls away.

It's quick and rushed, a fumble of hands and belts, buckles and clanking armor falling away, furs stripped off, until they're both naked, gleaming in the candlelight.

Cas is winter pale under his clothes, startlingly so compared to his tan face and arms, the warm golden golden glow from the sun. Lithe and strong, with muscled thighs and arms and broad shoulders that taper into a narrow waist. A long cock that curves just slightly, and gods he's gorgeous. Dean makes a low noise in his throat and Cas flushes, the color blooming up his throat and working into his cheeks as his head comes down.

He's scarred, and they stand out, most pale and long-healed, a few still pink and new. Dean reaches for one, lets his fingers trail over it reverently.

How the hells did he get here, get to this man? How did he become so important to Dean so damn quickly? His hand smoothes down Cas’s side, catching on the curve of his hip and tugging him close as Dean kisses him, soft and sweet. “Can I…” he sinks to his knees and Cas snarls a curse as Dean leans close, inhaling the heady musky smell of sweat and Cas.

He doesn’t ease into it. Just leans close and licks. Cas hisses and Dean peers up through his eyelashes, mouth open and wet as he licks Cas from base to tip.

“Dean,” Cas groans, and Dean smirks. Lets his lips kick up in a smirk that’s knowing and dirty as he takes Cas in his mouth, sinks down and down, swallows him all in one smooth go, as Cas curses and bucks against his mouth.

And Dean lets him, opens his mouth wide and grips Cas lightly around the base of his dick and lets the other man fuck into his mouth as he curses and groans Dean’s name.

“Dean,” Cas groans, and he peers down at the warrior on his knees.

Dean stares up, eyes dazed, lips red and bruised as he licks them. His hair is a mess around his face, his tattoos stark against his skin, and he looks—fucked. Utterly debauched. Aching for more.

Cas almost comes, looking at him, and groans, because he did that.

He made Dean look like that.

“C’mere,” he whispers, scooting down until he’s sitting on his tunic,and Dean is in his lap. He presses his fingers to Dean’s lips and Dean whines a little as he sucks on them, gets them wet and slick. Each slow slide of his tongue, every heavy suck, he can feel in his gut, in the pulse of his cock. He swallows hard and Dean leans up on his knees as Cas reaches between them, sliding wet fingers over his balls and up, finding the tight curl of him and circling as Dean shudders and whines above him.

He groans when Cas presses in, his body tight and hot around him. He goes slow, mindful of the tight resistance of Dean’s body, even as he rocks into the thrust of Cas’s finger, his voice broken, “More, Cas, gimme more.”

He hums a low note in Dean’s ear, presses a kiss to his skin almost absently as he adds a second finger, slowly pushing deep and spreading them wide, spreading Dean open for him. He’s wet and leaking and he wants to taste, wants to put his mouth there and get Dean wet and loose and ready, wants it so bad he almost does it, pushes Dean down and holds him open for his mouth and tongue.

“One day,” he says, adding another finger and Dean makes this noise and it’s goddamn perfect as it shatters in Cas’s ears. “I’m going to pin you to my bed and fuck you with my tongue until you’re sobbing,” Cas grits out, voice low and gravely and Dean—Dean swears, voice harsh and garbled and it takes a second of Dean shuddering around his fingers and spitting curses for him to figure out that Dean’s come, untouched, on his fingers and his words and—

“Dean,” Cas breathes.

He rubs his fingers through it, the mess of spunk on their belly, and presses it to where Dean is open and waiting for him.

Spreads it around to make him wet and slick, pushes it in. And Dean lets him, kisses him as Cas fills him up with his own come.

Cas almost shouts when Dean’s hand wraps around him, and he does shout when Dean shifts a little, lines up and sinks down, groaning and shifting, these dirty little twitches of his hips as he works to take Cas in, take him all. He’s panting when Cas is buried inside him and Cas isn’t much better, struggling to breathe and to stay still, to not buck up into the tight clasp of Dean’s body. He runs his hands over Dean’s back, soothing him as he shivers and adjusts, not quite able to still the tiny curl of his hips, pressing deeper, fucking into Dean in slow rolls.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, and it feels like…

Like a prayer. A benediction. It feels like every good thing Cas has ever known, murmured in that deep husky voice he would recognize even in death, and but like this, broken open and raw with want—Cas snarls and thrusts and Dean _howls_ , nails digging into Cas’s shoulders as he rocks down into the thrust.

It’s fast and dirty and Dean’s making these noises, this low chant that Cas recognizes is his name, very distantly. He knows but he can’t think past the hot pleasure of Dean all around him and Dean’s hands on his shoulder, his weight grounding as Cas flies.

He comes hard and fast, and Dean makes a choked noise as he does, spilling wet and weak against his belly as he comes a second time.

He leans against Cas in the cool dark room, his breath shuddering against Cas’s neck as Castiel pulls him close. Dean whimpers, a soft noise as Cas pulls out of him, and sets his teeth into the soft skin of Cas’s chest.

“Did I hurt you?”

A huff of laughter. “Shut up. It’s nothing I didn’t want.”

Cas hums against his hair and they stay like that, in the dark room and each other’s arms, until the candle burns out.

 

** V. The Wall **

 

“I looked for you last night.”

Cas turned and looked at Rafael, arching an eyebrow. “Did you? What did you need?”

Rafael watches him, silent for a moment. The sun is high and shining, blinding against the snow. A century of foot soldiers is forming up under Inias’s direction, to man the nearby guard towers. He can feel the bruises Dean left on him under his tunic and breastplate, can feel Rafael’s gaze between his shoulder blades and he feels the irrational need to turn and face the man before he can be attacked.

“I merely wished to determine how the summit plans are progressing.”

“Slowly. Until their emissary returns, there isn’t much we can do.”

“You are planning a trap, are you not?” Rafael says, silky smooth.

Castiel goes still. “Why would you think that?”

Rafael gives him that patronizing smile that Castiel loathes. It reminds him that Rafael is an attack dog, a stray Michael plucked from the arena sands and pushed into power, even as he held tight to Rafael’s leash. A leash that Michael still holds, a leash that is long and terrifying.

But at the end of the leash, there is still a savage fighter, a survivor who will win at any cost because winning is the only way to survive.

“Do you remember what your brother had demanded? Dragging this out—what does that serve? Your men will continue to die. Use this opportunity to give him the trophies he wants and end the war.”

“You want me to go in under a flag of truce and slaughter the Pict chiefs. Is that what you're asking for?" he demands, his voice is sharp and vicious. "What makes you think I would do that? For you or Michael?"

"I am asking you to consider what you are doing if you don't. Extending the war by months, months that I will be bound here at the Wall and not in Rome, protecting Michael. Is that what you want? To leave him defenseless?"

"My brother has never once in his life been defenseless," Cas says coldly. "He grew up with Lucius, and is the surviving sibling."

He's the deadliest of the Angelus brothers, and the only one that makes Castiel nervous.

"Be that as it may, Castiel. You don't know what he's facing in Rome."

"I don't know because he sent me and Gabriel to the fucking far reaches of the empire," Cas snarls. "I'm not here because I _want_ to be, Rafael. I'm here because it is easier for Michael if I am not in Rome. If Gabriel is not." He laughs, a little bitterly. "So here I am and if he has suddenly decided the political games he plays are more dangerous than he thought—he has no one but himself to blame for being defenseless."

He isn't defenseless. This is _Michael_.

"The Senate is moving against him. He lost the favor of the Emperor and the other senators want to have him removed. Killed, if necessary. If that happens, how long do you think Anna will remain safe? How long do you think the Angelus familia will be worth _anything_ , without Michael to safeguard it?"

"Anna is marrying Aurelius. And Michael made sure that Gabriel and I had a name apart from the Angelus familia. He wanted us to be distant—and we are. Don't expect me to give a damn now that he needs us."

"Does Gabriel hold that position?" Rafael says, his voice a quiet threat. "He was always fond of his older brothers."

For a moment, just one, Cas feels a white-hot rage washing over him. He glares at Rafael and his voice is low and furious. "Be very careful before you considering pitting my brother against me, Rafael. If you are Michael's attack dog, remember that Gabe is mine, and his bite is so much worse than yours."

Rafael's eyes narrow, and Cas waits—waits out his response until he makes a wordless snarl and stalks away.

The tension slides from him abruptly and he almost slumps against the wall. Inias is watching him from the courtyard and Castiel can see the concern in the other man's eyes. He waves him away and straightens.

Waiting out Rafael's time at the Wall is no longer an option. And he done playing his brother's political games.

Inias pushes off the wall and falls in beside him as he stalks into the courtyard, his armor and sword rattling a familiar beat.

"Get Balthazar and Gabriel."

"Cas?"

"We're ending this. I want that bastard out of my fort within the week." He pauses and glares at nothing before swinging his implacable gaze to Inias. "Get the others. Now. We're ending this fucking war."

 

 

** VI. The Wall **

 

Sam doesn’t say anything when he’s led back into the prison. He scoots to the side and leans his head against the wall as Dean settles next to him. For a long time, long enough that the other prisoners’ attention turns away, they sit in silence.

“Are you going to say anything?” Dean asks, drumming his fingers along his knees.

“What do you want me to say?”

“He’s a Roman,” Dean spits. “And we’re in his goddamn prison.”

“Does he make you happy?” Sam asks, softly.

Dean thinks about it, the way Cas held him, the way he settled his churning thoughts and grounded him.

“When I was gone—I kept thinking, I need to go home. I need to go back to Sam and Cas.”

Sam nods and says, simply, “I think that’s your answer, Dean. Cas matters to you, and the fact that he’s Roman—it doesn’t matter. It never has. He isn’t just the uniform he wears or the Empire he serves.”

“I won’t put him before your safety,” Dean says, looking at Sam seriously, and Sam smiles, a small, gentle thing.

“Dean you don’t put your own well-being before my safety. I don’t think Cas or anyone else will ever change that.”

“What about your visions?” Dean asks, sidestepping that little observation to turn the focus back where it belongs, back to Sam. “Did you have another one?”

He can see the signs of it, even as Sam shakes his head. His hands are shaking and he looks exhausted, wrung out. “It wasn’t bad.”

Dean growls, and Sam gives him a flatly unimpressed look. “It was the same thing. War and blood and fire. The visions aren’t changing, Dean.”

“I don’t know how to _protect_ Cas, not from in here.”

“Maybe it’s not about protecting,” Sam offers. “Not anymore. Maybe it’s about working together. Trusting each other. You don’t have to bring peace to the Empire, but maybe you can just—bring peace to this part of it.”

Dean stares at him. “Do you really think the clans will stand down?”

Sam shrugs. “John always listened to you more than he did me. Maybe if you give him reason, he will.”

“Dad isn’t you, Sammy. He’s never going to give me his blessing to love a Roman. Or a man.”

“Dad is a dick,” Sam says, shrugging. “Talk to Bobby.”

And that—that has some merit to it. Dean glances at his brother and gets a wide grin in return.

~.~

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

From anyone else the question would be a recrimination, but it’s Benny and it’s never been like that, not between them. Dean sighs a little and shrugs. “Because—would you have understood? He’s a _Roman_ , Ben.”

“And I’m a Viking and you’re a Pict. Andrea’s a Gaul. Not sure what your point is.”

He’s quiet for a long time and Benny leans over, nudges Dean hard on the shoulder.

“Castiel isn’t Alistair, Dean. He isn’t the demons from the ludus.”

“He’s from the same place.”

“Are you your father?” Benny asks, patient and easy, and Dean’s gaze jerks to him. “Am I the Old Man? You can’t punish yourself for loving someone with the same birthplace unless you’ll do the same to Sam for being John’s son or me for being the Old Man’s.”

“I want to love him,” Dean says, and it’s slow, a drawn-out confession. “But I don’t know how to be with him. There is literally a wall between us.” Dean laughs and rattles his chains. “I’m his godsdamned prisoner.”

Benny snorts. “That’s window dressin’, Dean, if you love him. If you could walk out of here and live at his side, would you?”

Dean nods, doesn’t even think about it, just nods and Benny smiles, a grim, satisfied thing. “Then I don’t really care what he is, because who he is matters more.”

“Love doesn’t fix everything,” Dean says, bitterly, and Benny nods.

“I’ve got a mess back home that confirms it generally fucks everything up. Doesn’t mean I regret it.” He kicks Dean lightly as the door to the prison opens and Castiel steps in, blue eyes blinking, a hopeful look on his face. “Doesn’t mean you should, either.”

~.~

The room Castiel leads Dean to is sparse. There is a low, messy bed, a cluttered desk, and  a hard, backless chair. Gear and weapons are spilled in one corner and a few scrolls and missives are discarded on the floor next to the bed.

It looks like a halfway point. A place where Cas lives, but doesn’t _really._ Half a glimpse into a life that Dean desperately wants to share.

“Dangerous for me to be here,” Dean says, quietly.

“Rafael is with Inias ten miles to the south,” Castiel answers, unbuckling his breastplate. Dean grins as Castiel reaches for him, purring a little when they kiss. It’s hungry but slow and sweet, a taste of what’s to come. 

“Did you plan this, Cas? To have me in your bed? Did you get rid of your spy so that you could fuck me in this mess of sheets that smell like you?”

“No,” Cas says, his voice gone deep, gritty, and it makes Dean pull back just a little. “I got rid of him so you could fuck me in my bed. So when you’re gone, I can feel you still.”

Dean smiles at him, nudges into his space. The rest of the narrow room vanishes as his hands find Castiel's hips, tugging him close until they're pressed against each other. Cas's eyes are flicking between his lips and his gaze, his lips close enough to taste. Dean holds himself still and doesn't press in to take that delectable taste of him, raw and real and addictive.

"Dean," Cas whines, and Dean grins before he leans down that tiny bit and presses in, skipping right past gentle and chaste and straight to desperate and hungry.

Cas groans into his mouth, hands bruisingly tight on his hips and Dean moans, hips arching up into it, his cock hard and heavy in his furs and leathers. 

He pushes Cas back a step and the man grunts as he falls on the bed. He lays there, still and watching, as Dean strips, not bothering to tease, just quick and easy. Dean keeps his gaze locked on Cas until he drops on the bed and fits himself over the Roman. Cas arches up against him, desperate for Dean’s touch and Dean's lips, desperate for anything Dean will give him.

"You want me to fuck you," he murmurs against Cas's lips and the legate nods, frantic, and Dean laughs.

"Ok, Blue. Ok."

Then he kisses Cas and reaches for his clothes and for a time, there is nothing but skin and gasps and low growling curses as Dean makes sure Castiel could never forget him.

~.~

Cas’s fingers are gentle as he traces the tattoos on Dean’s chest, the sigils and marks that Sam inked into him over the years.

“What do they mean?”

Dean hums, softly, stirs under Cas until he growls quietly. “Clan marks. This one,” he taps a sigil that stands apart, a flaming star, “is one Sammy and I chose together. I have one for my mother.” He shrugs lightly. “Some are just because the ludus thought I’d appeal to the crowds if I looked wilder. I was young when I was taken, didn’t have all my markings. Hadn’t earned them.”

Castiel’s fingers ghost over them and he fights the urge to lean into those long calloused fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, quietly.

“For what?”

“You shouldn’t be a prisoner. Not here.”

They haven’t talked about it. About the way he is wrapped up in this fight that neither truly want, or the fact that Sam is.

“Cas,” he says, quietly, and Castiel props his chin on Dean’s broad chest, staring up at him with blue bright eyes. “If I get the chance—you know I’ll take it, don’t you? That I have to take it?”

Cas nods. “I know. I don’t resent that, Dean. You have to protect yourself, and Sam. I can’t blame you for that.”

He drags Cas up a few inches to press their lips together, to lean his head against Castiel’s. “You know it’s not because of you. I would stay with you, if we weren’t—”

“Enemies on different sides of a godsdamned wall?” Cas says, dryly. His eyes are sad and Dean wants to kiss away the furrow there.

“I know, Dean.”

“Did you think anymore about what I said? About the summit?”

Castiel nods. “I did. I’m just not sure what I can do. As long as Rafael is here, my hands are tied—I am bound by the whims of Rome.”

Dean nods, “I know. I understand. But the blood that will spill. Cas, if we can stop it, we have to try. Don’t we?”

“How? You are a prisoner and I am duty-bound. What can we do, just the two of us?”

Dean is quiet for a long moment, and then he grins, bright and mischievous. “Sam thinks that together we can do more than we could ever do apart. And we held to that, on my side of the wall. I protected you and kept you safe. Returned you unharmed to your side of the wall. Maybe we just need to do that, again. Take care of each other.”

“How?” Cas whispers, and he sounds so lost that it shatters something in Dean. “How can two people stop two empires?”

“We don’t,” he says, honestly. “We only refuse to support them.”

Cas pushes up off Dean’s chest, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know, Cas. I just know that what we’re doing is only gonna end with everyone dead and I don’t want to face you on a field of battle. I don’t want to be the one who kills your friends or your brother. I don’t want your brother to kill mine. I want it to be _over.”_

“You say that like we get to decide this.”

Dean shrugs. “Why don’t we? Why can’t we walk away? You are an empire away from your brother—if you vanished into the wild, what could they do?”

“There was a centurion who did, in Germanica,” Cas admits. “Aniel went on patrol with two soldiers. We found them, later, bound and gagged. There was no sign of Aniel. He walked into the wild and never emerged. We looked for him, briefly, but we were fighting a losing battle against the tribes and couldn’t afford to spend our time searching for a single soldier who didn’t want to be found and likely died within a week.”

Dean watches him, and Cas goes silent. For the first time since Aniel walked into the wild, he thinks about the man. About why he had done that, what had driven him to it. They weren’t close—Balthazar had been friends with the other man, but even Zar had only been able to say that Aniel was quiet the week before he vanished, but there was nothing that led to his actions.

There was nothing that said, _he’ll run._

“If I deserted my legion—I would be forfeit in my Empire.” Cas says. “I could never go home.”

Dean nods. “But maybe we could create a home of our own.”  

Cas rolls to face him, and a tiny smile curls his lips. “You want me to help you escape.” Dean doesn’t demur, just holds his gaze, and he thinks it’s fair, that kind of request, especially considering how much Dean worked to keep him safe, how he risked himself to get Castiel home without the other tribes interfering.

He smiles a little and touches Dean’s cheek, leans in to kiss him softly. “I’ll help you,” he says, softly.

Dean nods into the kiss and Cas doesn’t say that when he’s gone, this thing—sweet and fragile and so very important, already—will end.

With a wall between them and war raging, it will have to end.

He curls into Dean and closes his eyes and tries very hard to not feel the bitter sting of that truth.

~.~

For a week, they are kept in their small prison, pulled out to work the horses and in the kitchen, polishing armor and sharpening swords that will be used against their own men. Balthazar watches them, and if he knows there is something different about Dean and Castiel, he doesn’t indicate.

Dean is quiet and stays near Sam, going about his work with a brisk efficiency and cool standoffishness that encourages the other prisoners to leave him alone, and makes the Romans around him wary and cautious.

There is one moment, when Benny's attention is pushed somewhere else, drawn away by another prisoner who is bleeding after sparring with the legionnaires, that Dean looks at Sam and murmurs simply, "Wait for my word." His eyebrow hitches up and he nods once before he scoots as close to the injured prisoner as his chains will allow, helping as much as he can.

Dean watches, a tiny smile on his lips and he waits, time spinning slow and endless, around him.

He waits for Cas to come for him.

~.~

The problem, Castiel thinks, is that it is a far different thing to sneak two prisoners out of a fort overflowing with legionaries than it is to sneak one legate out of a forest under the cover of darkness.

He understands that the comparison isn’t fair. But the thought is there, and he can’t quite shake it as he sits in the hall with Inias and dinner is served around him. Rafael is in the fort, dark eyes and mocking smile following him. But it’s not Rafael that he is worried about.

He watches Gabriel, with the tight set of his mouth, and the way his amber eyes never quit watching.

“Do you think Gabriel would support me, if I walked away from the legions?”

Inias pauses, a slow moment of hesitation that catches at Cas, tugging hard at the fear in him. “I think Gabriel loves you but it will be hard to reconcile that with his love for the Angelus.”

There is the true issue.

It is not his empire he is betraying. It is his brother. His family.

Castiel pushes the thought aside and gives Inias his attention. “Will you help me?”

Inias gives him a smile that cuts, sharp and painful, and Cas’s breath catches. “When have I ever refused you, Angel?” he asks softly.

Cas rises and Inias follows him, a faithful shadow. It is only when they are alone that he says, “I want to help Dean and Sam back over the wall.”

Inias doesn’t blink. “You understand that it is dangerous and if they—if _we_ —are caught, they will be executed.”

Cas feels his gorge rising and he nods. “I will protect them, if it comes to that.”

Inias smiles a little. “Yes, yes, you would, wouldn’t you.” He pushes off the wall and walks away, the words drifting over his shoulder as he goes. “I will take care of it, Angel. Stay away from him.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

** Part 4. The War  **

 

**I. The Wall**

Gabriel pushed Pan harder and she snorted, furious, as she stretched out a little further, struggling to keep up with Morningstar.

Cas and the stallion galloped ahead, a streak of grey, streaming black, and rippling crimson. Gabe tucks a feral smile into Pan’s mane as he leans into her and the wind rips over him, snow dusting into his eyes.

He knows that the toxic feeling in the fort is because of Rafael and the fury he can’t let go of, but he also knows his brother, and there’s something Castiel is hiding.

There is a reason Cas was made legate, instead of him. Castiel is a devious and smart:  where Gabe would use his tricky mind for games, to turn a profit, to embarrass whichever brother or politician had annoyed him recently, Castiel would look at a situation—be it a battlefield or a tense meeting of families—and he’d see the way to the end. The fastest way to win, even if it means devastating everything and everyone in his path.

He could be stealthy when needed, he just didn’t usually bother to give a damn.

He was smart, he was deadly, and he had absolutely no mercy, and it made him a far better legate than Gabriel ever would have been. If Gabe is the sharp, stinging sword cutting through their enemies, Castiel is the mind who wields the sword, directing it to the best path.

It never bothered Gabe, before. He liked that they each had a role that they were so very good at, that they could fight so effortlessly at each other’s back and side.

But now— when Castiel is quiet and withdrawn, hesitating over the execution of a few tribal chiefs—now Gabriel is left floundering, wondering where his brother’s head is, where his loyalties lie. It is only here, when they ride together—nothing but each other and the horses and the wild land around them—that Gabriel sees the Castiel that he adores, the one who would never betray him or the Angelus familia.

Except that isn’t who he’s seeing now, and it leaves a heavy sinking feeling in his gut.

He whistles, shrill, and sees Cas’s head come up, looking back.

Gabriel loves his brother like this. Wild and unbound by the cares of the world. It stings a little, watching him draw Morningstar in, the light dimming in him as the stallion grudgingly slows and Pan canters at his side.

“We have to talk about the summit, Cas.”

Cas huffs a sigh and pulls Morn to a stop.

“You know it’s a trap.”

Gabe shrugs. “If we know that, we plan for it. We counter with a show of force they can’t stand against.”

“In their territory? Our cohorts won’t function in their forests, Gabe,” Cas dismisses, wearily. “And we cannot expect that they will consent to meeting on our side of the wall. There is no incentive for them.”

“What do you want to do?” Gabriel asks bluntly, because they’ve danced around it long enough.

“I want to patrol the Wall and ensure that the Picts don’t push beyond it and I want to let them live their lives on their side of it,” Castiel snaps. “But our _brother_ wants glory for Rome.”

Gabriel stares at him and Cas shakes his head. “Why are we following the orders of a man who has never set foot on the field of battle? Who is a world away from where we are, where our men are dying?”

Something cold slides down Gabriel’s spine. “We serve Rome’s wishes, Cas. You know that. If Rome wants us to expand our Empire—”

“It doesn’t and you know it,” Cas snarls. “We haven’t pushed the wall further since before Julius Caesar retreated. There is no point in this war. We _can’t_ win it, and even if we take home slaves, even if we bring down the warchiefs—what then? Do you think others won’t rise to replace them? That the war won’t continue under another’s leadership?”

“That would be another Legate’s problem, baby brother. We need to do what Rafael wants so that we can go _home.”_

There’s a quiet pause and then, “Is it? Home? Still?”

Gabriel smiles, slow and lazy, leaning on his saddle as he studies the snowscape in front of them.

“Rome is always our home, Cassie. Just like the family is always our first concern.” Gabe says, softly.

“I was fifteen the first time I left Rome,” Cas says. “Since then I have spent twelve months in Rome, and it was split up over three separate furloughs.”

“Cas,” Gabe starts.

“I have spent more time fighting for Rome than I have ever spent there. More than half my life has been spent in Gaul and Germanica, in Africa… here. You say that Rome is our first priority—and I want to know _why.”_

Cas glances at Gabe and sees the sharp concern in his brother’s strange and beautiful eyes.

“I don’t know why I care about a place that has no use for me,” Cas admits, his voice low and rough and it makes something in Gabe ache.

“Lucius,” he says, slowly. “Loved our home. He left to serve it and he died for Rome.”

“He _died,”_ Cas snaps, “because he was reckless and determined to embarrass Michael. He did not serve Rome with his death. He lost a fight with his brother.”

“He is _dead_ , Cas,” Gabe bites out. “And now, you’re in love with a goddamn Pict and his mystic brother, and talking about ignoring the orders of Rome and what—what do you want me to do here?”

Castiel straightens and gathers his reins, turning Morning back toward the fort.

“Nothing, Gabriel. I don’t want you to do anything.”

His voice is unfathomably sad as he nudges Morning and they start back towards the fort.

~.~

Hours later, Gabriel collapses against the bed. Balthazar grunts in displeasure and twists away from his lover as he marks and tallies the forts supplies. Gabriel watches him for a while, watches the furrow in his brow and the way his teeth catch at the corner of his lips.

Zar has always been the quartermaster for Castiel’s legion, the one who could stretch their provisions and supplies in a way that sometimes felt magical. Zar smiled and dismissed those claims and calmly went about feeding a small army.

“How is he?” Zar mutters, frowning deeply at his notes before Gabe shoves them aside and burrows into his lover’s lap. “Pet,” he orders, petulant, and Zar’s scowl fades into something softer.

“Tell me what happened,” he coaxes, his voice low and warm.

“He’s going to do something. I don’t know what, I only know that he will disobey orders. He…” Gabriel bites off the words, the ones that felt almost like treason, not sure he wants to trust Balthazar with that. He can feel the slight tension in his lover and he rubs a hand along his bare calf, soothing and apologetic, even as he turns the subject.

“He has been fighting too long,” he says, simply.

“What will you do if he disobeys orders?” Zar asks carefully. Gabriel can hear the question under it. _What will we do?_

Castiel has always kept Zar and Gabriel and Inias close, the steady hands he depended on that kept his legion functioning at its very best.

And they have never been divided.

If they are—Inias will stand with Castiel, as he has always done.

And Zar will stand with Gabriel. Whatever stance the golden Angelus choses—his brother or the empire that made him—Balthazar will stand behind it.

“I don’t know,” Gabe says, his voice low and sad.

His brother had died, carried home broken and bloody by Inias, torn open by the barbarians he spied on in Gaul.

And if Castiel wasn’t very careful, the same thing would happen to him.

And Gabriel had no idea how to stop it and less idea of what he would do if—when—Castiel broke ranks completely with the Empire.

He hides his face in Balthazar’s side and tries not to think.

 

 

**II. The Wall**

 

“Gabe suspects something,” Cas huffs. He’s reviewing the latest orders for his men, scowling just a little because the supplies are tighter than he likes.

“Does he know?” Inias asks, smoothing a whetting stone down the gleaming edge of his sword.

It’s a familiar, rhythmic noise that’s kept the worst of Castiel’s unease at bay and his gaze flicks up, over his friend.

Inias is dressed down, in a simple tunic and a loose belt, wild hair tugged back by a leather tie, formidable attention on the gleaming metal he caresses with the skill and attention of a lover.

It makes something twist in Cas, to see Inias so comfortable and vulnerable. “No,” he says, forcing his attention back to the reports. “But he suspects. He won’t help me.”

“There is a lot of space between helping and hindering,” Inias observes.

The problem is that Gabe is unpredictable at the best of times. His loyalty to his brothers is unshakable, but which brother varies with his mood. Castiel is his favorite, the baby brother Gabe adores and spoils, the one he teases and guides and serves.

But he will never command the kind of blind devotion that Michael and Lucius did. That Father and the Empire do.

And sometimes—often enough that he is concerned—that blind devotion trumps the fond love he has for Castiel.

“Do you have a plan?” Castiel asks, pushing thoughts of his unpredictable brother from his mind for the moment. He cannot control Gabriel. He can only minimize the threat he poses.

“Yes. The day the emissary returns, we use the chaos to slip them out. I’ll take them to one of the guard towers. They’ll be on their own once we slip them over the wall.”

It’s almost painfully simple, which makes more sense than Cas wants to think about and also makes him nervous. It’s only his faith in Inias, in his skills at going where he doesn’t belong and his utter loyalty to Castiel, that keeps the fears and concerns choked back and silent.

“We don’t know when that will be,” Castiel says, instead.

Inias nods. “I know.” He strokes the stone down the blade of a short, wicked looking dagger, a violent melody. “Which is why we’re prepared for anything.”

~*~

It comes faster than Castiel could imagine. Two days later the fort wakes to shouts from the wall, and Castiel peers down at the pale hair and serene face of the Pict emissary.

Inias slips away as Castiel gives orders for her to be brought to him, and Castiel wants to stop him. Wants to tell him to wait.

He wants to steal one more minute with Dean, wants to cling in a way that he isn’t allowed. Instead he stalks down the stairs built into the wall, shouting for Gabriel and Rafael as the beautiful Pict is escorted into his fort and Inias goes to free his lover.

 

 

**III. The Wall**

 

Sam watches his brother. Dean dismisses it, Sam knows, but it doesn’t mean that Sam actually _stops_. It means that when he does watch Dean, it’s done carefully with the kind of quiet reserve that doesn’t draw Dean’s attention.

He’s made a lifelong habit of it, at first because Dean is what kept him fed. Later, when he was older, it was because Dean was who taught him. Dean kept him alive.

His whole life has been spent looking to Dean and he’s doing it still, here in this tiny cell.

So, when the door swings open and one of the centurions—the one who came for Cas, who intruded on his quiet sanctuary—steps into the dim cell, Sam reacts not to Inias’s sharply barked order, but to Dean.

Dean, who straightens and stands, tugging lightly on Sam’s chains until Sam struggles to his feet next to Dean.

“Come with me,” Inias says, simply, not bothering with explanations.

Sam has never been put to work, not in all the weeks he’s been held prisoner.

It should chill him that he is being pulled from his cell now. Instead, he presses close to his brother and follows where he is led.

~.~

Inias bypasses the stables, tugging lightly on the chains Dean and Sam wear and they follow, docile enough, as he leads them out of the fort, and turns to follow the wall. For a time, they tramp along in silence, only the crunch of snow under their feet breaking the silence of the windswept, empty plain.

“What are we doing?” Sam hisses and Dean shrugs. He watches the unwavering line of Inias’s back and Dean swallows the hint of concern rising in his throat.

“I don’t know, but Castiel trusts him,” Dean says, forcing his voice to stay even.

“Which means we should?” Sam asks, his voice sharp and high with disbelief.

Dean hesitates, and looks at his brother. “I think that we should see where this goes because we’ve been prisoners for almost two months. Unless your visions have told you something new, us sitting in that damn prison won’t do anyone any good—not us or the tribes. Is that what you think we should do? Sit in the chains and the dark and wait for your visions to show us the way out?”

Sam scowls but falls silent as they follow Inias through the snow. The guard tower makes Dean’s stomach twist as he remembers riding up to it with Inias, and the way he left him there with Castiel—he pushes that thought aside and trudges after Inias, holding Sam up when he stumbles.

The Roman is silent until they shove into the little guard tower. He blows on his hands and nods as he looks around. “When the sun goes down, you’ll be safest. Stay here until then.”

He turns to leave and Dean snatches at his arm, abandoning his brother to drag the Roman around to face him. “What the hell? Are you just leaving us here?”

“Did you expect more than that?” Inias asks, coldly. “The Legate is risking much with this. I will not allow him to destroy himself for you.”

Dean pulls back, startled, and Sam says, softly, “Does Castiel know you’re in love with him?”

Inias doesn’t flinch but his eyes go murderous for a moment and Dean has a second of anxious vulnerability before he pushes it down.

“Castiel has always known,” Inias says, and then crouches, unlocking the chains on Dean before he moves to Sam. “Sometimes,” his eyes flick over Dean, “love isn’t enough. Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense, two people.” He allows one thin dagger to clatter to the ground, but doesn’t say anything else, just turns and slips out into the snow and sunlight. Dean wonders if he’s right.

If he and Cas were always meant to end like this.

They wait there, in the small dark room, for what feels like years. Dean orders Sam to sleep and as the hours wear away he finally does, lulled by constant terror mixing with long quiet.

Dean watches him, watches the furrowed brow and the way he twitches a little in his sleep, and tries to focus on how close they are—how close Sam is—to being free.

He can’t quite stop his mind from running over everything that could go wrong, the endless threats that could still stop them and drag _Sam_ back to that tiny prison.

He sits at his brother’s side, tense and nervous and _waiting._

It doesn’t surprise him  when he hears the rough, pounding rhythm of a horse’s hooves. He nudges Sam and murmurs, “Hide,” before he stands and pulls the thin dagger, holding it hidden in the folds of his furs as he waits.

The door swings open and Dean braces himself for a flood of soldiers, for an attack—for anything but Castiel, standing wide-eyed and windblown, framed by the endless night sky. Dean makes a choked noise, Cas gasps out something he _knows_ is his name, before he shudders and drops the blade, taking one big stride to drag Cas into his arms.

The kiss is desperate, as desperate as the hands that cling to him, clutch in his furs, and jerk him closer, but it’s gentle, too, like Dean is precious, fragile, something to be guarded and protected, and Dean has _no fucking clue_ what to do with that.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dean gets out, gasping and nipping it into the sharp curve of Cas’s jaw, and Cas snarls in response, rolls his hips up into Dean, and fuck, fuck, they can’t, they _can’t._

Cas seems to remember and pulls back just as Dean does. His face is set now, twisted in something that tries to be a smile but isn’t.

“I had to say goodbye,” Cas says.

It breaks something in him, and Dean reaches for the other man, runs his finger over the rough stubble and full, chapped lips. Thumbs away the tears in the corner of his eyes.

“Thought we did that,” Dean murmurs, and Cas laughs, wet and weak.

“Be safe, Dean. Please. I can’t hold back the legion. I—I don’t—”

“Shhh, hush now, Blue. I’ll be fine. We both will,”

Cas gives him a wide-eyed, searching stare.

“Kiss me,” Dean murmurs. Cas surges forward and they hit the wall. From somewhere deeper in the hut comes a pained-sounding groan, but Cas is kissing him, arms tugging him close and he knows it’s a goodbye, knows that they cannot have this, not after… So he kisses Cas, sinks his hands in the Roman’s hair, and pours everything they don’t get to say, don’t get to keep, into a kiss that will have to be enough.

It will never be enough.

He realizes it as Cas sobs his name and Dean kisses him gently.

He could spend a lifetime with this man, and wouldn’t be enough.

“This is,” a vaguely familiar voice drawls, “touching. Really. But I think it’s about over. Don’t you, brother mine?”

Castiel goes stiff and startled against him and tears himself free of Dean. Spinning to face the newcomer, Cas braces his entire body in front of Dean, protective and defensive.

“Gabriel,” Cas whispers.

 

**IV. The Wall**

 

 

Castiel is very aware of what disappointment looks like. He’s felt it for Gabriel, over the years, while cleaning up his tricky brother’s messes. He’s seen it in Michael’s eyes, and, on occasion, in Lucius’s.

He saw it in his father, before he retired from Rome and washed his hands of his squabbling children.

Castiel knows what disappointment looks like and loathes it. He hates seeing it in his family’s eyes—and it’s staring at him now, from Gabe’s hard, golden eyes.

Dean shifts behind him and Cas moves, drawing Gabe’s attention before it settles fully on Dean.

“What are you doing here?” he grits out.

“I’m keeping you from destroying yourself and our family in the process,” Gabe says, patiently, but his eyes are furious.

He should have stayed at the fort. He should never have risked this—he knew even before he slipped out of the fort that Gabriel was too suspicious.

“I am doing Rome’s bidding.”

“Freeing prisoners is for the glory of the Empire?” Gabe scoffs, stalking deeper into the guard house. Cas snarls a little but gives ground, letting his brother stalk closer.

“Freeing one prisoner will never affect Rome.,” Cas says evenly. He can feel the subtle tension that takes Dean, close enough to touch but not so much that he’d impede Cas in a fight. “If it does, than our Empire is not as strong as our brother and family like to believe.”

Rueful amusement quirks Gabe’s lips and Cas can _see_ the brother he loves and trusts, who has risked his life for Castiel more times than he cares to think about.

The problem is not that Gabe does not love him.

It’s that he does not love only him.

“Lucius would be disappointed in you, baby brother,” Gabe says softly.

Cas’s gaze drops as he feels a pulse of shame. It’s a dirty play, bringing Lucius up, but it doesn’t surprise him. Gabe’s always played dirty when it suited him. And right now, it suits  him.

“Lucius is _dead_ ,” Cas says, sharply. “He does not get an opinion, not anymore.”

“And you would free someone just like his killers,” Gabe snarls, taking a step further into the room.

“You say that like they are all the same.”

“They _are._ They’re savages and they want us dead.”

There’s a soft snort as Dean slips out from behind him. “You say that like you know me,” Dean drawls. “Like you know a damn thing about me or my people.”

Gabriel’s whole body goes still and tense. His gaze flicks from Castiel to the tattooed warrior smiling cold and furious at him.

“I know enough,” Gabriel says. “I know that you are savage and primitive, that you will kill indiscriminately, that I have killed more of you than I can bother to count, and you—you are only one more to die on my sword. You are nothing.”

Cas makes a choked noise in his throat and Dean shrugs.

“Maybe that is all true,” he says, and Cas’s gaze flicks to him.  He’s never heard that note in Dean’s voice. One that is empty and feral and dangerous. “Or maybe I’m a man who cares about my family as much as you cares for yours. Maybe I am a man who kept your brother alive and safe when I could have slit his throat and left him for the wolves. Maybe I am the one _still_ trying to keep your brother alive.”

Gabe smiles and Cas shivers. When Gabriel smiles like that, all lazy and easy—that’s when he’s at his most dangerous.

“You don’t keep my brother safe. You can’t even keep yourself safe.”

Dean snarls and moves, fast, lightning fast, and Cas shouts, “ _No!”_

He gets in one good blow, before Gabe catches the hand holding the dagger, tosses it aside with a laugh and slams his forehead into Dean’s. Dean crumples and Gabe draws his sword, twists it in his hand and gives Cas a long stare. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill him.”

“Because I will never forgive you. Take him back, punish him, tell Rafael. But if you kill him, you will lose more than Lucius. Are you prepared to lose another brother, Gabriel?”

There’s a long beat of silence and, for a moment, Castiel doesn’t know what he’ll do.

He wishes Inias was here.

“I will not kill him. And you will not stop me when I make an example of him.”

Castiel looks at the man on the floor, his gut twisting painfully, and nods. “Done.”

~.~

They ride away, Dean tied to the back of Castiel’s saddle. Sam waits until the sound of hoofbeats dies, then he creeps from the tiny corner cabinet Dean had pushed him into. His body aches from the unnatural contortions and his heart is pounding as he stares at the blood— _his brother’s blood_ —spilled on the rough ground.

He touches it carefully, rubs it between two fingers and shudders as the vision washes over him, like slow waves.

_Fire. Blood. Death and dying. Dean walking through it. Petals falling._

_And where he walked through the petals, the fires did not spread and death did not touch._

He shudders as he blinks the vision away.

Whatever else has changed, his vision has not. He licks the blood away and, when night has settled over the land, he quietly scales the wall and slips into his forest.

And Sam prays to every god he knows that he wasn’t leaving his brother to die alone.

 

 

**V. The Wall**

 

It had been two days and Gabriel had avoided Castiel the entire time. Inias watched, silent and blank-faced while they rode back into the fort and Gabriel nodded at the limp body of Dean. Inias had given Cas one apologetic look before he dragged Dean away and Cas hadn’t seen either since.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think it was over. He knew that Gabriel was keeping Inias away from him, that he was biding his time with Dean’s punishment.

Meanwhile, the summit was less than a week away and the entire fort was abuzz with the preparations. Inias took a small unit of men over the wall to lay traps under Rafael’s orders.

He saw Balthazar when the blond man brought news and food and the quiet plea that Castiel apologize to Gabriel.

He didn’t. He ignored his brother as thoroughly as Gabriel ignored him.

And he worried.

It was the third day, when the sun was still rising, that Balthazar and Inias came for him.

“Gabriel wants you in the courtyard,” Zar says, and Cas’s eyes dart to Inias.

“I can’t,” Inias says, low and helpless. “Legate, I can’t help.”

“Don’t interfere, Cassie. Give him this and let it die,” Zar says. “Don’t force his hand.”

Cas stares at the men he has called friends and brothers and wonders how the hell he got here—how the world turned on its head so quickly.

Zar stares at him, eyes wide. He nods. “Take me to him.”

There are five prisoners in the courtyard of the insula, shivering in the snow and mud as Gabriel watches two of his soldiers spar.

Dean stands with them, near a tall, burly man with strangely bright eyes and a smile that seems a little too sharp.

Gabe glanced up lazily as Castiel appeared and a smile twisted his lips, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He whistled sharply.

A slave boy trots to him with a gladius and a small plain shield and he nods at one of the prisoners. “Arm yourself.”

“Gabe,” Cas starts and Inias catches his arm, hauls him back. Gabe doesn’t even look at him. He smiles, bright and friendly, and lets his gaze flick to Dean. “Tell him, Pict. Or I’ll kill him unarmed.”

Dean stares for a long moment, then gives the order and falls back a few steps, ceding the battlefield to Gabriel.

The Pict that stumbles forward is pale, with wide scared eyes and dark hair that hangs loose around his face.

Castiel’s stomach sinks. He’s a child, little more than a boy, and not even a warrior.

He doesn’t want to watch this. Knows it will be a bloodbath.

He doesn’t have a choice.

Gabriel moves slowly, almost lazily, as the boy stumbles in the mud, fighting the weight of the shield and the gladius, unfamiliar and unwieldy in his grip.

He looks like a boy with his first sword, stabbing with no grace or skill. Next to him, Gabriel moves like his sword is an extension of his arm, as comfortable and familiar in his grip as a goblet of wine.

He’s playing with the boy, quick flicking stabs with his gladius as the boy stumbles past him, and Cas feels the urge to scream, to tell Gabe to stop being cruel. He takes a half step forward and Inias’s hand clamps down on his arm, holding him still.

“No, Angel,” he breathes.

Gabe’s eyes flick to him, where he’s standing there, furious and helpless and a smile curls up his lips. He finishes the boy off lazily and Cas hears the choked cry from Dean as the boy—fuck, he was a _child_ —falls.

He’s dead, a wide, red slash across his neck, and it was all done so casually, with such insufferable indifference, that it’s a clear insult.

Gabriel smiles, a sharp vicious smirk as he says simply, “Next?”

~*~

By the time the fourth Pict is stumbling around Gabriel, Dean has slipped past angry.

“Don’t fight angry, brother,” Benny murmured after Andy fell, and he had let that command settle in him, wrap around his fury, soothe it away until he could breath without wanting to scream.

He knew that this was a punishment.

For him and for Cas—that it had nothing to do with the four dead bodies in the mud.

They were merely object lessons for him. But the real lesson here is for Castiel, and Dean is the one who will be left bloody and bleeding.

Garth collapses in the mud and Gabe spins, his movement flashy and wide open, too wide—Benny slams into his side and the centurion stumbles.

“Enough,” Benny snaps, voice sharp.

Gabriel’s eyes narrow, but he nods, slowly. “Yes. Let’s end this.” His gaze slips to Dean and goes strangely feral.

He is a Roman centurion from a high-born family. And yet, in this moment, covered in blood and mud, Dean thinks that maybe Gabriel is the savage one.

He scoops up the gladius and the shield, fumbling them a little as he falls into a slow, circling pattern.

Gabriel watches him, a tiny smile on his lips. It kicks wide when Dean gives a hoarse shout and lunges forward, swinging wildly.

“C’mon, Dean” Gabe chides, slapping the gladius away easily. “Didn’t watching the others teach you anything?”

He swings quick and sharp. Dean stumbles and shoves his shield up as he falls back, panting.

“Don’t make this easy, wildling. I want to give my brother something to remember.”

He lashes out and catches Dean in the side, a sharp glancing blow.

Dean grins as Gabe’s eyes flick from him to Cas, and—

Lunges. It’s fast, fast and dirty, sweeping low under Gabe’s shield, slamming his shield into the centurion’s side.

Gabe snarls as he falls back and Dean spins the gladius, slams the hilt into the other man’s shoulder as he sweeps his arm up for a wide, slashing blow.  Gabe makes a sharp, pained noise as he scrambles to keep his gladius.

“Thought you wanted to give your brother a show,” Dean grins, his eyes bright and furious.

Gabe throws himself forward, tight and focused now, and Dean scrambles to match him, sliding in the mud as the centurion tosses his shield aside and grips the gladius with his other hand.

The showmanship is gone and it’s all quick and furious, slashing too fast to follow as Gabe throws everything at Dean. Dean gives ground, scrambling to keep up until he’s bleeding from many tiny, shallow wounds on his legs and his side, one on his forehead dripping into his eye. Gabe has him pressed into the wall of the fort, the sharp, wet tip of his blade pressing into Dean’s throat. He stands there, panting, his eyes clouded. Cas shouts, something distant and unintelligible, and Dean wishes.

He wishes Cas didn’t have to see this. His gaze flicks to the Legate and he sighs a little.

“This,” Gabriel snarls. “Is _over._ Now. Do you understand? He is not _yours.”_

“He isn’t yours either,” Dean says, and he knows it’s true.

Maybe that simple truth is what infuriates the centurion so much.

He blinks at Dean and then steps away; his sword falls harmless at his side.

Dean leans there, shaking, as Gabe nods to the nearby slaves.

“Take him back. Clear the courtyard of the bodies.”

The slave reaches for him and Dean snarls, baring his teeth until the kid skitters back a step, wide-eyed and wary.

Benny touches him once, pulling his attention before he gives Dean space. “C’mon, brother. Let’s go. You survived this one.”

Dean stares at him, trying to make sense of the words, but the world is dizzy and distant. He can’t hear anything but Gabe, his voice low and furious as he says to Castiel, “Next time, baby brother, I will leave you a corpse. Leave the Pict alone and do your duty.”

He waits while Gabriel stalks away, waits for some kind of response from Castiel.

But it never comes. There is only a sad, sad stare and a frustrated sigh from Balthazar, only Benny’s hands on him, trying to pull him away, pull him to safety, to their _prison._

And Castiel. Walking away from him, his shoulders slumped and resigned.

The world feels distant and dizzy but those details stand clear in the fog, until he groans and surrenders to the encroaching black.

 

 

**VI. The Wall**

 

Castiel makes it to his quarters, somehow. He’s shaking and his jaw hurts from clenching his teeth and he can _see_ it, the boys Gabe killed in the field today He wavers for a moment and then lunges for the pisspot, vomiting messily. His gut clenches and heaves as he gags. He closes his eyes and sees it again, his brother turning lazy circles around the field, fucking _toying_ with the slaves.

Gods.

He swallows hard and straightens and the door bangs open.

Gabe is still muddy and dripping blood, his hair sweat matted to his head, and his eyes gleam with battle light.

Castiel has seen him like this, a thousand times. But it’s the first time he feels like he is looking at a stranger.

“I let him live,” Gabe said, simply. “Now let it go.”

~.~

The summit creeps up on them, almost overnight. Castiel knows there have been preparations made and that there are expectations made of him, but he has no idea what he will do when it comes time to walk into a battle that will end with so many dead.

Peace tastes like an empty promise, ash and rot on his tongue. He moves through his duties and prepares for the inevitable as he avoids Gabe and Rafael as much as possible.

Inias stays near him, a silent, watchful presence, and Cas wonders if it is because Gabriel ordered it or because of his own loyalty.

He hates the lost, rootless feeling, but he can’t shake it.

Rafael sits near him the night before they leave for the summit, and Cas keeps his eyes trained on his plate, too tired and furious to spar with Rafael.

Rafael sits silently for a long while, watching Castiel pick at his dinner as the room empties around them.

“You don’t trust me,” Rafael says, eventually, and Cas’s eyes snap up. Rafael smiles, a small, regretful thing. “No, don’t. Don’t argue. You don’t trust me and you never have. I’ve never wondered where I stood with you, Castiel, not the way I have with Gabriel and Lucius. I know that you dislike and distrust me. It has made working with you easier, because there is no game to play.”

“What do you _want?”_ Cas asks, bluntly. He’s too tired to play these games and if Rafael has dispensed with the pretenses he no longer needs to.

“I want victory for your brother and glory for the Empire. And I want you to follow my orders, if only for the summit.”

Castiel stares at him, at the sharp gleam of his eyes and the patience he didn’t expect from Rafael, of all people.

“Can you give me that?” he asks, quietly, and Cas—

“I do not know,” he says, honestly.

Rafael’s eyes narrow a little and he leans back.

“I would be better served leaving you here,” he observes and Cas laughs.

He stands while Rafael watches him like something small and easily crushed, and Castiel wonders if he actually believes that.

Perhaps.

His brothers have always made a habit of underestimating him.

“Try it. Try to take the Pict warlords without my men, Rafael. See how well you fare without me. But do not think my men will follow you into a battle.” He rises and stalks away. Gabriel watches him, eyes narrow and speculative, and Castiel smiles at him, sharp and dangerous.

 

 

**VII. Beyond the Wall**

 

It was eerie, walking through the silence. Even now, a week after his escape from that quiet, lonely guard tower, it was strange to be alone and in silence.

Odd that what was once so easy and familiar had been effortlessly destroyed by two months of prison, cramped in tiny dirty quarters with too many other breathing bodies. The silence is grating and he finds himself mumbling as he walks.

It’s safe now, to do that.

The first few nights—as he scaled the wall and slipped over it, crawling across the wide-open plain under a moonless sky—silence had been essential. Even when he slipped into the trees, he had been careful, quiet and cautious as he moved, a silent wraith haunting the trees. The Pict tribes were absent here, but he saw the traps laid by the legion and he quietly disarmed them as he went, moving deeper into the forest to where his father and tribe were.

He tried, very hard, to not let his thoughts dip towards his brother, left alone on the far side of the wall, and what could be happening to him.

Sam wasn’t stupid enough to think that Dean wasn’t going to be punished and he was too much of a realist to think that he’d ever see his brother alive again.

The thought was crippling when he let himself think about it, let himself dwell. So he didn’t. He was a Winchester, and avoidance was a family specialty. He threw himself into surviving and reaching his people.

If Dean was lost to him, he could at the very least save his tribe.

It was working well. He thinks, muzzily, that if he wasn’t recovering from two months of being a prisoner, he might actually have made it.

Might have done what Dean would have wanted.

Instead, he falls, his body sore and distant feeling as he crashes into the forest floor and thinks, helplessly, that he tried.

He always tried and so very often he failed.

~.~

He wakes in slow stages. He’s aware of warmth and something heavy covering him, the scent of smoke and herbs. He leans into the soft touch on his face and he feels something warm and approving in him, before he slips back under.

The next time he wakes, he can see a fire burning bright and warm near him and he makes a noise, something that feels like a name in his mouth.

Someone moves around him, coming into view and he stares.

“Am I dead?”

Jessica smiles, lovely and stern behind her tattoos. “Not yet, Sam Winchester. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

He smiles at her, weak and tired and lets that promise tug him back under.

~.~

“When is it?”

“It’s not for you to worry about,” Jessica snaps, but there’s worry more than anger in her eyes and he catches her hand in his as she starts to move away.

“Jess, they have Dean,” he says, simply, and all of her reservations deflate. Jess has known the brothers too long, known _Sam_ too long to not know what that means.

“It’s in two days. Sleep, just a little,” she says, and her voice is a sharp order now. “I will prepare everything and wake you when we are ready to leave.”

 

 

**VIII. Beyond the Wall**

 

The summit takes place in a large field. It is just over two leagues from the wall, deep enough in Pict territory that Cas is anxious and on edge. They go in strength, three centuries marching with Castiel and his centurions mounted at their head.

And, he knows, there is a century of auxiliary soldiers, the specially-trained stealthy bastards, led through the woods in secret by Inias.

Dean watches from where he is tied, bloody and bruised, his stomach sinking. When Gabriel appeared in his cell and to drag him out, Dean wasn’t sure if he would actually be allowed to live.

Instead he was tied and marched behind the legate and his centurions, behind Rafael and his sharp dark eyes.

He walked silently and didn’t stare at Castiel, tall and beautiful on his big bastard of a horse.

He didn’t allow himself to think of how many would be dead by nightfall.

They walked in silence, only the sound of rustling armor and pounding feet breaking the silence of his people’s lands, and he could feel eyes on him, the furious legion and the careful, hidden eyes of his Pict tribesmen. Idly he wonders if word has already reached his father that he is alive and _here_.

He wonders where Sam is, and if he is alive.

They march, a short and tense thing, and he does not think about the Roman he loves who will kill his people or the father he serves who will betray them all.

If he allows himself to think at all, it is of Sam, and surviving.

The plain is eerie and quiet as the legion approaches. He hears Castiel murmur an order.

It says something, the way that quiet command spreads like fire and the legion obeys, coming to a uniform halt.

The field is empty, snow blowing in small flurries across it, and a black mare stands alone in the center.

Dean grins at the sight of Baby and sees Cas jerk in his direction.

Baby whickers and Morningstar snorts, fighting the iron grip Cas has on him, even as Cas grits out, “What the hell is this?”

Dean watches his mare, still and quiet where she stands, and he sighs. Because it was always going to end like this. Sam’s vision even said it would. That it would end in fire and blood and war.

“ _Dean,”_ Cas snarls, and he finally looks at the legate, his expression sad. “It’s exactly what I warned you it was, Cas.”

Blue eyes go wide and it _hurts,_ seeing him like this.

“It’s a trap,” he says, and then he whistles, shrill and sharp.

Baby bolts towards him.

And the field _explodes_.

 

 

**IX. Beyond the Wall**

 

Cas feels the heat of the fire a second before he hears the _sound_ of it, roaring up from nowhere.

It’s exactly what Dean promised, exactly what he _knew_ would happen, and Rafael walked them directly into it, like a brash, overconfident idiot.

He feels more than sees Baby race past him, and he hears a warcry from the Picts a second before he sees them, flowing out of the trees like a wave of insects.

Rafael snarls and signals to Inias, wrenching control of his— _his!_ —legion from him.

Gabriel spares him a single look before he kicks Pan into a gallop, yanking his gladius free. He throws himself into the battle almost gleefully, his shriek high and _cheerful_.

Castiel rolls his eyes and spins, shouting for Inias and hearing him yell back. The centurions emerge from the melee— _how did the tribes move so fast?—_ and flank Castiel.

“Orders?”

“Secure the chiefs. The warriors will scatter if we cut off the head,” Castiel snaps, scanning the field. He nods at where a small knot of Picts are clustered. “ _There._ ”

“Cas,” Inias says, as Cas yanks Morn away.

“Go, Inias,” he orders, and sees the desperate, conflicted stare from the man he calls brother—and then Inias wheels his horse, screaming for his eagle, and his men splinter from other two centuries.

Cas watches for a moment, long enough to see Inias’s century slam into the Pict, driving like a hammer into them, and he gives a small smile of grim satisfaction before he twists, searching.

Sam’s voice, eerie and clear with supernatural vision, echoes in his mind:

_But when you walked where the petals fell, the fire was pushed back and the blood did not flow._

There is still time. He doesn’t know _why_ but he believes it. Believes in Sam, and in Dean. In _them._

He ignores his army fighting around him and… there. There, black against the snow and flame, was Dean. Cas leans low over Morning, his sword an easy weight in his hand as he turns the stallion to head Dean off.

~.~

Dean grunts as Baby jumps over a fallen legionnaire, gripping tight with his knees as he steers her towards the treeline.

It all went to hell so fast that he has no idea who’s winning or where the fuck his father is. All he knows is that Gabriel is out there with a sword and Cas is going to die if he isn’t protected and—Sam’s fucking prophecy ring too clear in his head.

_You have to protect him._

Dean snarls and Baby snorts heavily, and gallops on through the melee.

~.~

Jess stands at his side, her eyes wide and hands shaking. “Sam, you can’t.”

“Have to,” he says, and her grip tightens on his hand. “Why?”

_Walk through fire at my side._

He shudders and shakes his head. “Because we can stop this. We can _stop this.”_

She catches him by the back of the neck and pulls him in. He kisses her back with a desperation that he didn’t want in their first kiss.Not here. Not where blood and screams and fire almost drown out the sweet, clean taste of her. She pulls back almost immediately, and her eyes are furious pools of unshed tears. “If you die, Sam Winchester, I will _kill you.”_

He grins wide and turns, plunging into the battle.

~.~

Sweat stings in his eyes and his leg is bleeding where an arrow grazed it. He’s lost track of his brothers, of the battle. He hears, distantly, Balthazar’s voice, ringing clairon loud over the fighting, and the answering shift in the centuries as they turn their attention and the battle.

He is absurdly pleased—even here, on a wild plain in Britanica, with the battle turned to chaos around them, his men are loyal and disciplined.

He grunts as he brings his gladius down, slicing clean through the arm of a Pict reaching for him.

This, he thinks savagely, is what brings glory to the Empire. This kind of mad battle that means everything and nothing, that Michael and all the idiots in Rome would never understand.

He hears the sound of a horn and it jerks his attention around to where Inias is driving deeper still, pushing his century in toward the Pict battle chiefs. The man with the horn is tall,  broad-shouldered and bloody, and Castiel can feel his burning gaze even from here.

He shivers and hears a hoarse shout, something that sounds like his name, before an arrow slams into his gut and he gasps, a wet, hurt noise.

Inias sees it happen, sees the moment the sound of the horn pulls Cas off balance, sees the arrow come up and he screams, screams Cas’s name as the arrow slams home.

He loses time then, and it’s not the same as a normal battle, not the hazy battle fever that he is so familiar with. This is sharp—panic and desperation—and he doesn’t know how he gets across the field so quickly, doesn’t know what he did to be bleeding from his shoulder and thigh, or why his horse is limping heavily under him, but Cas is _there,_ and he is reaching, his hands fumbling for the legate.

“John, _stop this!”_ Dean bellows.

Dean catches Cas as he slumps forward, and the Pict warlord--John--snarls his name.

“Dean,” Cas gasps, and Inias has never heard his friend sound like that, so weak and _hurt._

“Easy, Blue,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

John is lunging forward now, a heavy axe in his hand as he stares greedily at Cas lying wounded in Dean’s arms and Inias spins his horse as the axe comes up, cutting through the air--

The axe cuts down smooth, so smooth it almost doesn’t hurt. He feels it bite, deep, and coughs once. He tastes blood, and he can hear the world filtering in, slow and distant.

Dean is shouting, and he can feel Cas’s hand, stronger than it should be, his voice panicked, “Inias, _Inias_?”

“Go, Dean,” he grits out, and he drags his sword up, fighting against the pain in his gut. He spits blood to the side and spares one look at Castiel.

Castiel, who he has loved and served, who he will now die for. Gods, he hopes the man can find happiness. “Go, Angel,” he murmurs, and then he turns to the warchief who will kill him.

Who already has—the wound is fatal.

But not yet. Not yet. He hears Dean’s shouted anger before the black mare is galloping away. The warlord smiles at him, savagely.

“You’ll die to protect him?” he asks, accent so heavy and thick it’s almost unintelligible.

“Yes,” he says, simply, a truth he has always known.

~.~

“Dean,” Sam shouts, and Dean twists, turning instinctively to his brother, Baby flowing smooth into the turn.

Sam catches the mare’s reins and Cas lists in the saddle, a pained noise slipping free.

“Inias,” he groans, and Dean nods. Looks at Sam.

“Go,” Sam orders, already pulling Cas away. Dean nods and takes a deep breath, shoving his worry down where it can’t hurt him, and then he wheels back to the battle.

Gabriel lost his brother early. Not unusual—Castiel plays it calm and collected in battle, biting off orders with a kind of detachment Gabe could never match. Inias always stayed close, close enough that he never worried too much about the youngest Angelus.

He sees that damnable black horse galloping across the field, and Dean leaning low over her neck. There’s blood on his leg and his expression is settled in the same grim sort of determination that Gabe saw in the courtyard of the fort. As he gallops, Dean shouts a hoarse order and a Pict responds, tossing a spear to him.

Dean plucks it effortlessly from the air and throws, almost one smooth motion. Gabe hisses in surprise as the horse goes out from under a warchief. There’s a bellow of rage, and Gabe stares as Dean gathers himself and leaps from the mare’s back, rolling and coming up in a defensive crouch in front of –

Oh gods.

That’s Inias, bloody and still on the ground.

Gabriel only barely processes the fact that Dean is apparently fighting a Pict warchief before he’s searching frantically for his brother. Because if Inias is—he chokes the thought off and searches for Cas, noting with relief that Zar is still on his gelding, shouting orders to his archers.

He only briefly sees Cas, being supported by a fierce-looking Pict— _what in the actual hells?—_ before he sees Rafael fall and he is dragged back into the battle.

~.~

“Move, son,” John says, his voice tight and furious, eyes still trained on Inias.  Dean doesn’t bother turning to look at the wounded man. His knife is in one hand and he holds a short battle axe in the other.

“Did you even think about it?”

“What?”

“About honoring your promise. About keeping Sam out of it.”

John’s gaze flicks to him, nervous, and Dean smiles cruelly. “That was what you promised. That Sam would be left out of the war if I went to the Norsemen. And I brought them, didn’t I? Brought you everything you needed to kill the damn Romans. And you threw Sam into and you never even considered keeping your word.”

“It’s done, Dean. Move and let me finish this.”

He steps forward and Dean shifts. “Don’t. It’s over. Call the tribes off.”

John stares at him, shock and disbelief giving slow ground to pure amusement. “Son,” he starts. “This will be over when the Romans are dead.”

He lunges for Inias and Dean shifts, smoothly sliding his knife up and in. John gasps a little and Dean’s eyes close, for just a moment, before he jerks his knife free with a wet noise. His axe comes up, swinging in a perfectly controlled arc and he hears a shout—distant, so distant _—_ as it bites in and through. John’s head falls in a clumsy roll across the bloody snow.

The battle is raging and he stares at his dead father... and for a long moment, he can’t think beyond this.

His father is dead. He killed him. He killed his father.

“Dean,” a familiar voice says, an urgent order in that one word and he nods, pushes to his feet. “End it, Bobby. I am chief, now. Fucking end it.”

Bobby give a short sigh of relief and nods.

 

 

**X. Beyond the Wall**

 

It takes hours. Dean watches from Baby’s back, his gaze sharp as they clear the field. It becomes clear very quickly that both the Picts and the Romans have suffered from the battle.

Rafael is dead, John is and Dean has no idea what that means, not long term.

Gabriel watches from his side of the field while the legionnaires clear their dead, Balthazar at his side, and Dean knows there is something assessing and challenging in the man’s gaze, that he is _furious._

Castiel is still with Sam, and Dean knew he’d survive, that the arrow had been a glancing wound in the side. It still terrifies him, how close it had been.

How easily he could have lost Cas. How he still might.

He focuses on the field, on the dead being picked at by the clan’s women and children, on the snow churned into bloody mud.

The fires have burnt themselves out and Bobby nods at them.

“Those were Sam’s plan. He knew you’d be here. Wouldn’t ignite the damn things til you were safe.”

Dean wonders if Sam _knew_ or if it was merely the desperate belief of a brother who refused to give up.

Sam had always been very good at believing in Dean, even when no one else did.

“You gonna talk to the Centurions?” Bobby asks, nodding to where Gabe and Balthazar wait. With a sigh so slight it could barely be heard, Dean nods.

“Have Sam bring Cas and that fucking horse,” he says.

Bobby makes a noise, and then, “Dean. He’s the best leverage we’ve ever had against these bastards, we can’t—”

“Get Sam,” Dean says again, and he looks at Bobby. His eyes are chillingly blank, the kind of empty that Bobby remembers seeing right after he returned from his time as a slave, as a gladiator.

That was the man who could calmly slice his own father’s head off.

That’s the man he’s staring at now.

He nods, once, and turns his mare away.

Sam’s hands are still wet with blood and he’s almost swaying with exhaustion, but Bobby is there with his face set in that firm way of his.

“He wants the Legate,” Bobby says, not looking at Castiel.

Sam nods.

Word reached him, quickly, after John fell.

After Dean killed him.

He isn’t sure how he feels about it. Not yet. He’s been too focused on keeping Cas alive and not dying himself, on the endless stream of wounded. He hasn’t had time to consider that his father is dead.

That Dean is the one who killed him.

That Dean is the leader of their clan, now, the warchief.

He doesn’t have time to think about them now, either. Not when Dean is waiting and Bobby looks nervous, and Rome is still massed in their territory.

He looks at Cas and smiles a little. “You ready?”

Hesitation flickers in Castiel’s eyes, but then he nods, a resolute gesture that doesn’t actually match his eyes, and struggles, wincing, to his feet.

Sam helps, supporting his weight while Jess watches with narrow-eyed disapproval and Bobby leads the way.

The gray stallion is tied nearby and he snorts anxiously when he sees Cas, doing an impatient dance in place.

“You shouldn’t ride,” Sam frets and Cas gives him a wry smile.

“I don’t think I have a choice. It’s barely a graze”

Sam gives him a flat stare and Cas sighs, choking back his whimper when he scrambles up on Morningstar’s back.

“Cas,” Sam starts, but pauses, aware of Bobby watching and the tribe too close. His lips press into a thin line.

“Take care of yourself,” Castiel says, softly. “And Dean. He’ll need you now.”

Sam nods, too numb to do anything else, and Cas turns his gaze to Bobby. “Lead the way,” he says softly.

~.~

Gabriel tenses when he sees the black gelding leading Morning out of a heavy thatch of woods. He would recognize that stallion anywhere, and he can see Cas, distinctive even at a distance, sitting rigidly atop him.

Cas is led to where Dean is sitting, and they pause briefly. Gabriel shifts on Pan.

“What are they doing?” he frets and Zar shrugs, silent. He’s been silent since he took his place at Gabe’s side, a kind of speculative quiet that worries Gabriel.

Balthazar is never quiet.

He’s loud and brash and irreverent—matches Gabe step for step in his wildness.

He keeps staring, though, at the wide bloody field and Gabriel sighs, finally. Turns his attention back to the field and his approaching brother.

And the man who ended the battle.

“I want to go home,” Balthazar says softly and Gabriel jerks in his saddle. “I’m tired of watching people we love die. I’m tired of wondering if you will be next.”

Pale blue eyes find him and he smiles,weak and brittle. “I want to go home, Gabe.”

The hoofbeats are close now, and Zar shifts, his expression going light and blank, and Gabriel takes a second too long to turn back to the new Pict warchief.

“Go back to your Wall,” Dean says flatly. “Take your dead and stay on your side of the Wall. Do not give my people a reason to attack you again.”

“If we do?” Gabriel says, lightly and Castiel snarls his name.

Dean gives him a cold, dead-eyed stare. “I killed my chief to protect my people, Gabriel. Do not think I would hesitate to kill you.”

He turns a little, “Besides, your Legate is the one who will order you to remain on your side of the wall. Aren’t you, Cas?”

It’s not really a question, but Cas nods, anyway. He’s pale and his eyes are searching Dean’s face for something with a desperation that makes Gabe’s stomach twist. “Dean,” Cas starts but Dean backs his horse up, two steps.

Cas’s face goes stricken and hurt, so raw and open it’s _painful_ and then it’s gone, whipped away and he nods, the cool and detached Legate that Gabriel has been watching for so many years.

He doesn’t know why that hurts.

“Your men will be released in two days’ time,” Cas says. He gives his brother a short nod. “Move the centuries out.”

Gabriel hesitates for a heartbeat, but Balthazar is already turning away and he knows that Cas needs this. So he doesn’t argue and he doesn’t look back as he turns Pan toward the south and the Wall.

He hears, though, Dean murmur a quiet, “Be safe, Blue.”

And then Cas is trotting after them and if there are tears in his eyes, neither Gabe or Balthazar mention it.

 

 

[ ](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PZ8slNVhjfE/Wfn9UkNYEGI/AAAAAAAADhc/AzjVYaGzl7oDb06PnIyBfWdpPqL0t7HrwCLcBGAs/s1600/DCBB17-2.png)

**XI. Beyond the Wall**

 

They move through the forest on silent feet, a mystic and a warchief, and for a moment it’s easy to forget.

It’s easy to forget the three months he’s been leading his tribe and the gaping, empty space in his bed, the pressure and the sharp stabbing loneliness that even now felt as sharp as the first day without Castiel.

For a few hours, as they walk, Dean silently guarding his brother and emptying his snare lines, he is not a warchief.

Here he is just  Sam’s brother, and he is sad and lonely and no one judges him for it.

The month following his father’s death had been a long series of battles, one following another until he’d secured his place as warchief. Sam had emerged from his wood to take a place at Dean’s side, a personal mystic who advised him and cared for the clan as much as he protected Dean.

Between the Viking who stood behind him–a silent, smiling threat–and Bobby, with his tribe’s considerable strength, the threats eased and it was suddenly his responsibility, the tribe. Feeding them and keeping them safe. Protecting their borders and expanding them, maintaining an alliance with their neighbors.

He was good at it, something that startled him and made Sam laugh.

And he hated it.

It’s only on days like this, when he slips away for a few hours to wander at Sam’s side, that he feels the tight band of worry and fear and guilt loosen around his chest, when he doesn’t feel as trapped as he did in the arena.

When he can allow himself to feel the longing for Cas and, on brief occasions, to look to the South.

“He’s still there,” Sam says, digging up the fragile bones of a sparrow. Dean wants to ask how Sam knew those were _there_ but he doesn’t.

There’s a lot of things he thinks it’s better if he didn’t ask his baby brother.

Sam brushes dirt carefully off the skull and slip it away, and straightens. “At the Wall. Castiel. He’s there. And my visions haven’t changed.”

“The war is over, Sammy. Let it go.”

“You haven’t,” he points out, gently. And Dean doesn’t respond to that. Because he can’t admit, not even to Sam, that he doesn’t know _how_ to let Cas go. The blue-eyed bastard left, and it was the safest thing for him, the _only_ thing for him.

But he took part of Dean with him and Dean doesn’t know how to get that back.

He doesn’t know how to even _want_ it back, the piece of him that is vital and important and belongs wholly to the other man.

~*~

It takes four months, all told, for word to reach Rome and Michael’s orders to return. Cas waits them out like a man awaiting execution.

He shutters himself away, avoiding Gabriel and even Balthazar. He does what is required of him, and then returns to his quarters, or ducks into Morningstar’s stall and presses himself into the straw near the corner while the stallion grumbles at him.

He misses Inias, a never-ending ache of loss.

He misses the wild, the world beyond the wall.

He misses Dean.

For four months, he _exists_ and calls it living and wonders what exactly his brother will do to him. Wonders what he _could_ do that is worse than the unrelenting pain of losing Dean.

~.~

“Word is we’re going home,” Gabriel says.

Castiel doesn’t pause in brushing Morning’s coat, picking through the dark of his mane. The stallion gives Gabe a deeply mistrustful look before nosing back into his grain.

“Cas,” Gabe says, his voice a sigh. “Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“For killing five men like they were toys for your amusement? For hurting Dean, knowing what he meant to me? For driving Lucius into the rage that killed him?” Cas bites off the last one, and he hears Gabe gasp before he stops himself.

“That. That wasn’t fair,” Cas says, his voice low and tired. “Lucius made his own choice.”

“And we live with them. As we always have,” Gabriel says, bitterly. “We all live with his choices while he walks away.”

Except he didn’t. He died, slipping behind the line of the Germanic tribes, and his mission failed.

They didn’t kill the Germanic warlord.

They didn’t take the territory.

Lucius died and Rome barely noticed because there was no glory or point to it.

There were only two brothers left to mourn his absence and two friends left to hold them together, and now Inias is gone, as well.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Cas says, abruptly.

After four months, it feels good to say it.

Gabriel is silent for a long time, and he watches his brother, watches Gabe’s golden eyes, the tricky window to his soul.

“Balthazar is leaving the legions,” Gabriel says, quietly. “When we return to Rome. He is leaving the legion. After Inias—it broke something in him.”

“And you?”

Gabriel shrugs, a laconic thing and smiles, a bitter thing. “I’ve never done anything else. If not fighting my brothers’ wars, what am I, Cassie?”

“You’re Gabriel. And you are Zar’s. Maybe it’s time to decide what you want besides a slow death.”

Gabriel is silent, and then, “Like you have?”

Castiel looks to the north, a tiny smile on his lips. “Yes.”

 

 

**XII. Near the Wall**

 

He leaves Hadrian’s Wall almost a year after he first rode up to it at the head of four centuries, flanked by his brother and best friends.It’s different, now. He’s different.

Castiel can remember, still, his brother’s words when he left Rome:

 

_Don’t go looking for trouble, Castiel. Go to the Wall and do your time. I’ll calm the other legates and the Senate. You’ll be home within a year. Just. Stay out of trouble for once._

 

As he turns Morning into the predawn light, he wonders what Michael will think when Gabriel and Balthazar return to Rome.

It’s different, leaving. He steals away alone, in the darkness, and he is wearing rough leather and furs, his armor and standards left behind with a life that feels more distant with every step he takes away from the wall and into the wilds.

He smiles as the sun rises, touches his heels to Morning’s side and trots into his new life.

~.~

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice is sharp as it cuts through the fog of sleep and Dean jerks upright. His brother is standing in the doorway, his face shadowed. The sun streams weak and hopeful behind him, a soft promise of spring.

Gods they need winter to break.

“What?” he demands, blearily, and Sam makes an impatient noise.

“Hurry,” he says, in that sharp tone that brings Dean instantly awake, rolling to his feet and reaching for his knife. Sam’s already gone, ducking back out, and Dean curses as he scrambles to chase him.

He stops short, just outside his little hut.

It feels like the entire tribe is standing there, watching. He can feel Benny stepping from nowhere to slide behind him, can hear Sam’s loud and commanding voice pushing his people back, but all he can see is–

A horse the color of mourning, with a mane as black as night.

And a man, dismounting from the familiar stallion. He looks dirty and tired, jaw covered in stubble and thinner than Dean has ever seen, but his eyes—his eyes still gleam blue and bright. Dean makes a strangled noise before he moves, before they _both move_ , stumbling toward each other and he catches Cas as he falls, hauls him close because no more, no more, “No more, I’m not letting you go again,” he whispers, the words almost frantic against Cas’s hair and he hears Cas laugh, a puff of noise before they’re kissing.

It feels like coming home. Like stepping into Sam’s hut after a long journey, as familiar as Baby galloping under him.

He kisses Cas carefully and tenderly, like a promise, and he feels the hitch in Cas’s breathing, the shaking of his hands.

He presses the words into him, his lips, his throat, his hair, while Cas hides his face and tears soak into his tunic.

“You’re home now, Blue. Shhh. I’m not letting you go.” It’s a promise and he doesn’t know if it’s for him or Cas or if it even matters.

He knows it won’t be easy. He can hear the mutters, can feel the tension in his people already. And he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He turns with Cas still in his arms and walks back to his hut, Sam shadowing them.

Together they can walk through anything.

  


 

 


End file.
